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CONTENTS VOLUME I. 



PAGE 

About Some Queer Little People. (Illustrated) Donald G. Mitchell 296 

Adventures of a Man-Kite, The. ( Illustrated) 315 

Adventure with a Critic, An. (Illustrated) John Riverside 63 

Affair of the Sandpiper, The. (Illustrated) Elizabeth Stuart Phelps 595 

All About Blind Man's Buff. (Illustrated) Hczekiah Butter-worth 37S 

Anna's Doll Lucretia P. Hale 28 

Antelope, or Prong-horn, The. Illustrated) Oliver Howard 630 

Arabian Nights, Who Wrote the. (Illustrated) Donald G. Mitchell 42 

Auctions all Over the World A r . S. Dodge 397 

Baby Sylvester. (Illustrated) Bret Hartc 506 

Baby's Thoughts. (Illustrated) 168 

Bean, The Sacred. (Illustrated) ." 92 

Bee and the Butterfly, The. Verse Margaret Eytinge 168 

Bee-hive, A Visit to a. (Illustrated) Annie Moore 34 

Being A Boy Charles Dudley Warner 165 

Bianca and Beppo. (Illustrated) Joel S. Stacy 177 

Billy Boy. Verse. (Illustrated) II. M. D 52 

Birds, For the. (Illustrated) C. C. Hashins 72 

Blue Beard's Island Charles Dimitry 409 

Blue-Coat Boys Virginia C. Pha-hus 2 

Borrowing Trouble. Translation of French Story on page 276 Nellie Binckley 430 

Bowwow-Curlycur and the Wooden Leg Margaret Eytinge S2 

Boys in Africa, Some. (Illustrated) M. S 230 

Boy who Took a Boarder, The Charlotte Adams 565 

Boy who Worked, The. (Illustrated) Ros-tvell-Smith 147 

Bright Idea, A. (Illustrated) M. S 411 

Brighton Cats, The (Illustrated) Joel S. Stacy 50 

Broken ! Picture 275 

Bubbles. (Illustrated) Joel S. Stacy 393 

Card from the Editor of " Our Young Folks " 160 

Card from the Editor of " St. Nicholas " 160 

Chanticleer. Poem Celia Thaxter 204 

Cheated Mosquitoes, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Clara Doty Bates 640 

Chip. (Illustrated) - Rebecca Harding Davis 689 

Christmas Angels. (Illustrated) Donald G Mitchell 105 

Christmas City. (Illustrated) S. B. C. Samuels 405 

Christmas in Spain. (Illustrated) John Hay 122 

Church-Cock, The. (Illustrated) Z. TopeHus . 330 

Churning Song, A. Poem Silas Dinsmoie 199 

Cloud-Picture, A. Poem H. H. Colquitt 79 

Coast-Wreckers, The. (Illustrated) 1 William H. Rideing 4S1 

Coming. Poem. ( Illustrated ) M. M. D 703 

Contentment. Picture, from sketch by IV. Brooks 396 

Cossack Horsemen. (Illustrated) 2S9 

tf Cost of a Pleasure, The. Poem William Cullen Bryant 177 

^Cruise of the Antioch, The. (Illustrated) Cyrus Martin, Jr 5S 

* Curious Fishes, Some. (Illustrated) Jas. C. Beard 256, 438 

W Curious Things that may be Found on the Sea-shore, Some. Pic- ) „ , „ 

E| • . , . } W. H.Gibson 658 

fi ture, drawn by ) J 

W Dangerous Experiment, A. Picture, drawn by Frank Beard 295 

* Date and Some Other Palms, The. (Illustrated) Fannie R. Feudgc 00 



IV CONTENTS. 



PAGE 



Dog-day Fancy, A. Picture 741 

Drinking-Pan, The. Poem. (Illustrated) M.M.D 480 

Dwarfs, The Ten Little '. Sophie Dorsey 70 

Eagle and the Serpent, The. Poem William Cullen Bryant 506 

Earth, the Moon and the Comet, The. Poem. (Illustrated) C. P. Cranch 698 

Elfin Jack, the Giant-Killer. Poem. (Illustrated) Joel S. Stacy 272 

Elves' Gift, The. (Illustrated) 4rtkur Crosby 108 

Emprunt de Peine. For translation. (Illustrated) Joel S. Stacy 276 

Enchanted Prince, The Rebecca Harding Davis. 18 

Famous Garden, A. (Illustrated) M. E. Edwards 466 

Farallone Islanders, The. (Illustrated) John Lewees 20 

Fast Friends. (Illustrated) J. T. Trowbridge 153, 184. 289, 

322, 398, 449, 534, 567, 658, 704 

Fifty Pounds Reward. (Illustrated) Donald G. Mitchell 669 

Fire-Crackers and the Fourth of July. (Illustrated) William H. Rideing 545 

Fish-Hawks and their Nests. (Illustrated) M. D. Ruff. 79 

Folded Hands B. W 459 

Following a Good Example. Pictures, drawn by J. W. Champney 249 

Forget-me-not, The Alice Williams 515 

Fourth-of-July Tablet 505 

Four Years Old. Poem. (Illustrated) L.G. Warner 532 

Gallant Outriders, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Burt McMillan 249 

Garden Party of Wild Animals, A. (Illustrated) Elizabeth Lawrence 583 

Garret Adventure, A. (Illustrated) M.M.D 129 

Gentle Angler, The. ( Illustrated) Paul Fort 627 

German Story for Translation. (Illustrated) Clara Hance 41 

German Story for Translation. (Illustrated) J. L 229 

Girl's Visit to the Geysers, A. (Illustrated) Susie Cogswell 333 

Good Boy, There was a. Poem. (Illustrated) 83 

Gowns of Gossamer. Poem Lucy Larcom /\^ 

Grandfather's Story. (Illustrated) 192 

Grandmother. (Illustrated) Elsie G 17 

Half a Loaf is Better than no Bread. Translation of French Story on page 86 170 

Hans Ryitzar's Breakfast. Translation of German Story on page 229 303 

Haydn's Children's Symphony. (Illustrated 1 James Judson Lord 429 

Hermann, the Defender of Germany E. A. Bradin 22 

Heronry among the Gnarled Pines, The. (Illustrated) C. A. Stephens 445 

Hidden Rill, The. Poem William Cullen Bryant 136 

Home from the Party. Poem. (Illustrated) Mary D. Brine 40S 

Home Service, The. Poem Mary D. Brine 548 

How A Tinker Wrote a Novel. (Illustrated) Donald G. Mitchell 92 

How Charlie Cracked the World. (Illustrated) "Aunt Fanny" 717 

How Jamie had His Own Way Mary JV. Prescott 202 

How Meg Changed Her Mind. (Illustrated) Elizabeth Lawrence 121 

How My Hero Found a Name. (Illustrated) E. A. E 605 

How Persimmons Took Cah ob der Baby. Poem. (Illustrated)... Lizzie W. Champney 420 

How St. Valentine Rememeered Milly. (Illustrated) Susan Coolidge 318 

How the Bullfinch is Taught to Sing. (Illustrated) R. E. Hale • 243 

How THE " Gull " Went Down. (Illustrated) Rebecca Harding Dazis 441 

How the Heavens Fell. (Illustrated) Rossiler Johnson 193 

How the Little Bird Went to Sea. Poem. (Illustrated) F. V. W 610^ 

How the Snow Came. Poem Annie R. Annan 3QI^~ 

Ice in India. (Illustrated) M. E. Edwards 714 • 

Indian Mother, An. (Illustrated) 29 1^ 

In Summer Time. Poem. (Illustrated; L. G. Warner 578 ^ 

In the Wood. Poem. (Illustrated) M. M. D 424 *) 

Introduction M. M. D 1 ■ 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Is n't it so ? Poem M. M. D 140 

Jack Frost. Poem Celia Thaxter 49 

Japanese Games Ichy Zo Hattori 167 

Jenner, Edward. (Illustrated) Clarence Cook 241 

Jim Crow. (Illustrated) Annabel Lee 647 

Iimmyjohns' Sailor-Suits, The. (Illustrated) Ally Morton Diaz 425 

Jingles 6, 83, 196, 214, 407. 492, 577 

Johanna Sebus. (Illustrated) ' John Lewees 377 

John Martin's Snowball. Translation of French Story on page 151 228 

Jolly Harper Man and His Good Fortune, The Story of the. ) ,, „ 

1 ' \H. Butter-worth 1 jo 

(Illustrated) S J 

Kindergarten Crow, The Charles Barnard. ... 299 

Kitten. Acting Charade Mary Haines Gilbert 373 

KlTTIWAKES, The. Poem Celia Thaxter 646 

La Boule de Neige de Jean Martin. For translation. (Illustrated) . . Paul Fort 151 

La Petite Plume Rouge. For translation Mary L. B. Branch 366 

Last Guest at the Wedding, The. Picture, drawn by M. I. MacDonalJ 44S 

Last Flower of the Year, The. Poem Lucy Larcom 107 

Last Pie, The Alice Chadbourne 301 

Law that Could Not be Broken, A. (Illustrated) Joel S. Stacy 39 

Le Petit Paresseux. For translation A. A. C 740 

Le Singe Favori. For translation. (Illustrated) H. D. Field 591 

Letter from Egypt, A. (Illustrated) Sarah Keables Hunt 693 

Letter from Holstein, A Mrs. Charles A. Joy 422 

Library, Making a. (Illustrated) John Lewees 7S 

Life-Saving on the Coast. (Illustrated) William H. Rideing.- 336 

Light-house, Under the. Poem Celia Thaxter 37 

Light-houses and Light-ships, Our. (Illustrated) William H. Rideing 725 

Little Ben and the Sunshine. (Illustrated) KateBloede 654 

Little Boy who Went Out to Swim, The. (Illustrated) Henry LLowland 632 

Little Doll that Lied, The. Poem Sarah O. Je-wett 595 

Little Girl, A. Verse. (Illustrated) M. H. B 740 

Little Girl's Diary, A Leaf from a. (Illustrated) Abby Morton Ih'az 724 

Little Girl who would n't Eat Crusts, The. Poem. (Illustrated). .M. M. D 117 

Little Goo-goo. Poem ' . Scott Campbell 404 

LITTLE Gustava. Poem Celia Thaxter 329 

Little House with the Golden Thatch. Verse M. /<'. B 606 

Little Red Feather, The. Translation of French Story in April No 554 

Little Reformers, The. (Illustrated) Rossiler Johnson 462 

Little Sambo and the Buttermilk Pail > • 

„ „ „ to!" Pictures, drawn by 5. McSpeden 60S 

The Buttermilk Pail and Little Sambo 5 ' r 

Little Violinist, The. (Illustrated) Thomas Bailey Aldrich 358 

Little "Wide-awake." Poem. (Illustrated) Wary A. Lathbury 354 

Look Ahead. Poem '. John Hay 44S 

Magic Keys, The. (Illustrated) James LL. Flint 3S8 

Magic Pictures. (Illustrated) M. ]'. M 520 

Make-Believe. Poem. (Illustrated) S. S. H 26S 

Making Snow James Richardson 274 

Mamie's Lecture. (Illustrated) 300 

Man who Sat the Old Year Out, The. Picture ', 10S 

Manatee, The. (Illustrated) Harriet M. Miller 200 

March. Poem. (Illustrated) M. M. D 255 

Microscope on Shipboard, The. (Illustrated) A. Rattray 527 

Mieux vaut avoir la Moitie d'un Pain que ne pas avoir df. ) ,, ,, „ „, 

T, t-, , . „., ,, > M. J.U. JJ bo 

PAIN. 1'or translation. (Illustrated) ) 

Mild Farmer Jones and the Naughty Boy. Poem. (Illustrated) .. Theophiltis Higginbotham 190 

Mischief in the Studio. A Pantomime G. B. Bartlett 2^,S 



VI CONTENTS. 



PAGE 



Miss Fanshaw's Tea-Party Emma Burt 394 

Missionary Insects, Some Mary B. C. Slade 576 

Monkey, The Pet. Translation of French Story in August No ; 732 

Moon Came Late, The. Verse. ( Illustrated) 69 

Moose Hunt in the Maine Woods, A. (Illustrated) C. A. Stephens 205 

Moving of the Barn, The. (Illustrated) Abliy Morton Diaz 602 

Mrs. Pomeroy's Page Maiy E. Bradley 341 

Mrs. Slipperkin's Family. (Illustrated) Clara G. Dollivcr 469 

My Friend the Housekeeper. (Illustrated) Sarah O. Jtwett 650 

My Little One Came. Verse. (Illustrated) M.M. D 99 

My Pet Lamb. (Illustrated) 234 

Naylor o' the Bowl. (Illustrated) Reli, era Harding Davis 65 

Nest, The. Poem II. H 696 

New Regulation, A. Verse. (Illustrated) 128 

New Toys and Games for the Children 1 70 

Nice Old Gentleman, A. (Illustrated) />. CM 478 

Nimpo's Troubles. (Illustrated) Olive Thome 161, 210, 277, 355, 

415. 473. 549 

Not at all Like Me. Poem Margaret Ey tinge 332 

Odd Fellow, An. (Illustrated) Harriet M. Miller 262 

Oh, no ! Poem. (Illustrated) M. M. D 13 

Old Dutch Times in New York. (Illustrated) T. //■'. Higginson 674 

Old-fashioned Hat, An. (Illustrated) Olive '1 home 7 

Old Simon. Verse. (Illustrated) 77 

Omnibus, The Autobiography of an. (Illustrated) Louisa M. Alcott 719 

Passenger Pigeons 1/. T 15 

Peach-Boy, 7"he. (Illustrated) Isaac Yaunkahama 386 

PETE. (Illustrated) Lucy G. Morse 117 

Peterkins had a Late Dinner, Why the Lucretia P. Hale 518 

Peterkins' Summer Journey, The Lucretia P. Hale 673 

Peter Parrot. Poem Rose Terry Cooke 263 

Pony Express, The. (Illustrated) Major Traverse . 641 

Popsey's Posies. (Illustrated) Lizzie W. Champney 607 

Prairie Fires. Poem. (Illustrated) Eudoi-a May Stone 029 

Princes in the Tower, The. (Illustrated) M. M. D 146 

Pussy's Class. Poem. (Illustrated) 1/. M. D 656 

Pygmy Families, The Deaf and Dumb. (Illustrated) James H. Flint 701 

Queen o' May, The. Poem. (Illustrated) M.MD 392 

Rabbit on the Wall, The. Picture, from a sketch by IV. Brooks 472 

Rascally' Sandy Robert Dale Owen 269 

Reifcca, the Drummer. (Illustrated) Charles Barnard 503 

Robi'IE Plays in the Water Olive Thome 628 

Robin's Nest, The. Poem. ( Illustrated ) C. F. Jackson 42S 

Room for One More. Picture 348 

Roses and Forget-me-nots. (Illustrated) Louisa M. Alcott 250 

Sam Quimby's Art Summer. (Illustrated) Fanny Barrow 95 

Sancti Petri ^Edes Sacra. For translation. (Illustrated) J. //. Morse 493 

Sea, By the. (illustrated) Yoah Brooks 10 

Shag, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Celia Thaxter 517 

Silent. Acting Charade Vary L. Ritter 124 

Sleeping Bloodhound, The. (Illustrated) 328 

Small Vessels and Great Builders. (Illustrated) Fannie Roper Feud ge 513 

Snowed In. (Illustrated) Martha M. Thomas 257 

Spring Workman, A. Picture 367 

Story to be Told, A. Pictures by. . . Win. Cruikshanks 617 

St. Peter's Church. Translation of Latin Sketch in June No 5S9 

Sun and the Stars, The. Poem. (Illustrated) M. M. D 455 



77 
5° c 



ST. NICHOLAS. 



._: . &L . f~i^ 









Vol. I. NOVEMBER, 1873. No. 1. 



DEAR Girl AND Boy — No, there are more! Here they come! There they 
come ! Near by, far off, everywhere, we can see them, — coming by dozens, hundreds, 
thousands, troops upon troops, and all pressing closer and closer. 

Why, this is delightful. And how fresh, eager, and hearty you look! Glad to 
see us? Thank you. The same to you, and many happy returns. Well, well, we might 
have known it; we did know it, but we hardly thought it would be like this. Hurrah 
for dear St. Nicholas! He has made us friends in a moment. 

And no wonder. Is he not the boys' and girls' own Saint, the especial friend of 
young Americans? That he is. And isn't he the acknowledged patron Saint of New 
York — one of America's great cities — dear to old hearts as well as young? Didn't his 
image stand at the prow of the first emigrant ship that ever sailed into New York Bay, 
and wasn't the very first church the New Yorkers built named after him? Didn't he 
come over with the Dutch, ever so long ago, and take up his abode here? Certainly. 
And, what is more, isn't he the kindest, best, and jolliest old dear that ever was known ? 
Certainly, again. 

Another thing you know: He is fair and square. He comes when he says he 
will. At the very outset he decided to visit our boys and girls every Christmas; and 
doesn't he do it? Yes; and that makes it all the harder when trouble or poverty shuts 
him out at that time from any of the children. 

Dear old St. Nicholas, with his pet names — Santa Claus, Kriss Kringle, St. 
Nick, and we don't know how many others. What a host of wonderful stories are told 
about him — you may hear them all some day — and what loving, cheering thoughts 
follow in his train! He has attended so many heart-warmings in his long, long day 
that he glows without knowing it, and, coming as he does, at a holy time, casts a light 
upon the children's faces that lasts from year to year. 

Never to dim this light, young friends, by word or token, to make it even 
brighter, when we can, in good, pleasant, helpful ways, and to clear away clouds that 
sometimes shut it out, is our aim and prayer. 



THE WOODMAN AND THE SANDAL-TREE. 



[November, 



THE WOODMAN AND THE SANDAL-TREE. 

(From ike Spanish.) 

By William Cullen B r y a n t. 

Beside a sandal-tree a woodman stood 

And swung the axe, and, as the strokes were laid 
Upon the fragrant trunk, the generous wood, 

With its own sweets, perfumed the cruel blade. 
Go, then, and do the like ; a soul endued 

With light from heaven, a nature pure and great, 
Will place its highest bliss in doing good, 

And good for evil give, and love for hate. 



BLUE COAT BOYS. 
By Virginia C. Phoebus. 



The blue coat boys were not United States sol- 
diers in uniform, not any soldiers in uniform, but 
boys of all ages between seven and fifteen, and this 
was the uniform they wore, — a blue coat or tunic, 
bright yellow petticoat, yellow stockings, a red 
leathern girdle about the waist, a white cravat about 
the neck, and on the head a little round, black 
woolen cap. 

How many of these boys were there? where did 
they live? why did they wear so strange a dress? 
They lived in London, about one hundred years 
ago, dozens upon dozens of them; they were all 
members of a school known as Christ's Hospital (a 
strange name for a school), and their peculiar dress 
was the regular school uniform ; they were charity 
scholars, brought from poor and respectable homes, 
to receive as good advantages as England could 
give even to her wealthier sons, and to be fitted 
for entrance into the highest universities of the 
land. The school still exists in London, and blue 
coat boys may be seen there to-day, but those of 
whom I am going to tell you belonged to the old 
time. 

The little seven-year-old boy, fresh from the 
home-love and petting, here found himself sur- 
rounded by a multitude of strange faces, number- 
ing five and six hundred, sometimes as many as 
eight hundred. How awkward it must have 
seemed to him at first, when even the familiar 



garments which mother's hands had made must 
be laid aside and the quaint school garb assumed! 
I can fancy such a one, going over the great build- 
ing for the first time, accompanied by an older 
scholar, who would explain to him the wonders of 
the place. 

He would hear how this old building had once 
been the home of the Grey Friars, an order of 
monks, whose uniform was of the color indicated 
by their name — he would be shown into the boys' 
bed-rooms, and told that these were once monks' 
cloisters, where they counted their beads and said 
their prayers and did their penances. At certain 
places he would be stopped to listen to fright- 
ful details of the scenes that had been enacted 
just there, among these old monks in the ages 
gone by. 

Then he would be told how, after the monks had 
been suppressed, the boy-king, Edward VI (whose 
memory all little students of English history learn 
to love), had, just a few months before his death, 
established in these extensive old buildings, this 
school for boys ; he would have his attention drawn 
to the brass medal-like buckle which fastened his 
red leathern girdle ; and the boy-face on it would 
always thereafter be associated in his mind with 
Edward VI, whom it was intended to represent. 
He would be taught to distinguish the monitors by 
their badge. Guess what this monitor's badge was. 



iE?3 



BLUE COAT BOYS. 



You never will : so give it up, and I will tell you. 
It was and still is, a superior style of shoe-string ! 

Had these blue coat boys any holidays? Yes; 
there was Christmas, when they clubbed their funds 
together and bought such refreshments as their 
means would allow, when even the penniless ones 
came in for a share of the good things, as they sat 
around the fire and told stories; then, on Christ- 
mas night, when the little ones had retired at their 
usual hour, seven o'clock, the monitors and older 
boys went through the halls and bed-rooms, sing- 
ing their Christmas carols, until, as one of their 
number wrote years afterwards, when he was no 
longer a boy, — "I seemed to be transported to 
Bethlehem, and to hear the voices of the angels as 
they sang to the shepherds." 

There was Easter, when the whole school marched 

in solemn procession through the London streets 

and were received by the Lord Mayor in his stately 

robes, who dispensed to each child cake, wine, and 

a shilling. That was a red-letter day, you may be 

sure. Then there were several days preceding 

I Good Friday, when they "supped in public," and 

: any persons in the city might come in to witness 

[ their proceedings; not so very stately a performance 

one would think, when he is told that they ate from 

wooden trenchers and the meal to which the public 

was invited as spectators was simply a meal of 

bread and cheese. 

Lastly, there were the holidays known among 
them as whole leave days, when there were no stud- 
ies and no dinner. This suited admirably the boys 
who were within walking distance of friends and 
parents, but those who had no other retreat but the 
school may well be excused if they longed for night 
and supper. It was bright enough at first ; break- 
fast over, they wandered away to a famous bathing 
place, known as the New River ; here they bathed 
and dived and swam, getting themselves appetites ; 
then they came out of the water and watched the cat- 
tle feeding in the meadows, the bees gathering their 
stores of sweets from the flowers, the birds finding 
their supplies of seeds and grubs — all things around 
had something to eat — the very sight made them 
the hungrier. How long the afternoons were ; they 
looked in at the bright shop windows, and then 
went to the Tower, where was a famous menagerie, 
and where they might watch the lions, for the keeper 
of the menagerie understood that blue coat boys 
were always to be admitted free of charge, when- 
ever they applied for such a favor. I cannot think 
those holidays without dinner were red-letter days. 
Did they make much progress in their studies ? 
Some of the brightest names in English literature 
belonged to men, who, in their childhood, were blue 
coat boys. It would be an interesting study for 



those of you who have leisure and taste for these 
things, to hunt up some of these names. Let me 
give you a few hints. One of them became a prom- 
inent English bishop. The initials of three, who 
became famous as poets and prose writers, were, 
C. L., S. T. C. and L. H. 

What did they read? It was before the days 
of children's magazines and children's literature, 
but they had Robinson Crusoe and the Arabian 
Nights. Do you know any brighter or more enter- 
taining books, even now ? 

They had some laws which were peculiar to them- 
selves ; these laws or traditions, handed on to each 
new-comer, and thus passing from generation to 
generation, were rigorously observed by all. 

Among these traditions was the abstaining from 
all fat meats, and the refusal to cat certain kinds of 
sweet cakes. No one could tell how these traditions 
originated. The boys were strictly allowanced in 
the matter of food, and we are told that this allow- 
ance was "cruelly insufficient;" so much meat 
placed upon each plate, part lean, part fat; this 
fat was known among the boys as " gag," and 
no matter how hungry he might be, nor how much 
his appetite might crave it, no blue coat boy would 
willingly be a " gag-eater." 

There is a touching story told of one who ac- 
quired among the other boys the reputation of a 
" gag-eater;" it was noticed that he quietly gather- 
ed up, after the meal, every bit of fat left on the 
plates of those who sat at the same table with him- 
self; the hungry boys were not likely to leave a parti- 
cle of bread, yet, if they did, the smallest bit of crust 
was never overlooked by him ; all these scraps were 
placed in a blue-checked handkerchief, and the 
handkerchief on a bench by the side of his bed ; , the 
boys watched to see him cat it, but they only saw the 
scraps accumulating ; it was rumored that he ate at 
night when others were asleep, but in this he was 
never detected. The " gag-eater" became odious 
to his fellows : he seemed a studious, gentle-hearted 
boy, yet they shunned him ; no one would play 
with him or associate with him; he ate "strange 
flesh ;" at length it was noticed that the blue-check 
handkerchief and its contents were regularly carried 
away, when he had leave of absence. His footsteps 
were traced by some of his school-fellows to the 
poorest part of the town, into a wretched garret ; 
and when the whole matter was revealed, it was 
found that the parents of the poor boy had become 
so reduced that they were in danger of starvation, 
and the weekly supply of scraps in the blue-checked 
handkerchief was gladly received and eagerly de- 
voured by the two old people. Honor to the brave 
" gag-eater !" I am glad to add that the school 
authorities came to the relief of his parents. 



TOMMY HOPPER S CHOICE. 



[November, 



TOMMY HOPPER'S CHOICE. 



By Paul Fort. 



There was nothing that pleased Susan Bur- 
roughs so much as being generous. She was will- 
ing to give away everything she had, and, more 
than that, she often wished to give away many 
things that she did not have at all. I do not mean 
to say there was any dishonesty about Susan. She 
simply took pleasure in thinking what she would 
give if she only had it. 

This was a very amiable trait, and generally a 
very agreeable one, but, sometimes, some of the 
smaller boys and girls, whom she used to entertain 
with accounts of what she would do for them if she 
only had this, that, and the other thing, were con- 
siderably annoyed in their little minds by the de- 
lightful, but impossible pictures she drew for them. 
They could not see any reason why Susan did not 
have all these good things since she was so anxious 
to give them away. 

It was a bright winter afternoon, near Christmas 
day, when Susan stepped out of the house, warmly 
dressed for a walk, and with a twenty-five cent note 
snugly tucked away in the bottom of her pocket. 
She did not have twenty-five cents every day, and 
she felt a little rich. By an instinct natural to most 
children about Christmas time, she walked directly 
to the largest toy store in the neighborhood ; not 
that she had any intention of buying anything just 
then, but, as you may have noticed, it is always more 
pleasant to look at pretty things when you have 
money in your pocket than when you have none. 

When she reached the store, the first thing she 
saw was little Tommy Hopper, standing boldly be- 
fore the shop window feasting his eyes on the won- 
derful things within. There were balls, and bats, 
and tops, and hoops, and kites, and boxes of tools, 
rocking-horses, sleds, steamboats with real engines 
and propellers, boxes of games, ninepins, battle- 
dores and shuttlecocks, steam-cars that moved along 
a track just like real ones (only not so fast), babies 
that crept on their hands and knees if you wound 
them up, little boys riding on velocipedes, great big 
humming tops, and jack-straws, and dear knows 
what all. 

"What are you going to buy, Tommy?" said 
Susan, stepping up softly behind him. 

Tommy looked around quickly. When he saw 
it was Susan, he smiled a curious little smile, and 
said: 

"I ain't a-going to buy nothing, I'm only a-look- 
ing." 

"You haven't any money, have you, Tommy?" 
said Susan. 



" No," said Tommy, in a very commonplace tone 
of voice, as if it were nothing extraordinary for him 
to have no money. 

"Now, I'll tell you what I'll do, Tommy," said 
Susan, " I'll give you the very prettiest thing in that 
window that you can buy for twenty-five cents ; so 
you can just take your choice." 

"Have you got the money?" asked Tommy. 

"Yes," said Susan, drawing her twenty-five cents 
from her pocket, "here it is." 

"It is all your own, is it?" said Tommy. 

"Yes; it is all my own," answered Susan. 

Tommy was now satisfied. He could go to work 
and make his selection with a certainty of being- 
backed by a capitalist. He did not hesitate long. 
In less than half a minute he had chosen a rocking- 
horse. 

"Oh! you can't buy that for a quarter, Tom- 
my!" cried Susan. "You must choose something 
cheaper." 

Tommy hesitated a little now. He felt humbled. 
And so the next thing he chose was simoly a box 
of tools. 

"Oh ! you little goose ! " cried Susan. "That box 
would cost two or three dollars. Isn't there any 
small "thing that you like which does not cost more 
than a quarter?" 

Tommy was now silent for some time ; his mind 
was a little confused. Susan would have suggested 
something, but the truth was she did not know 
much about the prices herself, and she did not like 
to mention anything that would cost more than she 
could pay. 

At last Tommy made a hit ; " One of those creep- 
ing babies," said he. 

"Oh! I can't buy that," said Susan, somewhat 
impatiently. 

"Why, that is ever so little," said Tommy, 
sturdily. 

He had chosen a baby because it was small, and 
he was not to be argued out of his position every 
time. 

" But I tell you, you can't buy that for twenty- 
five cents," said Susan. "Don't you know it 
creeps ?" 

" It's littler than our baby at home," said Tom- 
my, grumly. 

" Well," said Susan, " you couldn't buy that for 
twenty- five cents." 

" Yes, I could," said Tommy, and then a little 
doubtfully, "Which is the most, these creeping 
ones, or real ones ? " 



iS 73 .] 



TOMMY HOPPER S CHOICE. 



"You little simpleton!" said Susan, laughing, "No, you won't," said Tommy. "I haven't 

and shaking him by the shoulders. " If you don't choosed anything yet, and you said you'd wait till 
choose something quickly, I'll go away." I did." 




If Susan had not been one of the most good na- to mention to him marbles, and tops, and kites, for 

tured of girls, she certainly would have been tired it was winter time, and Tommy did not want 

out by Tommy's persistence in selecting the most any toys out of season, 
expensive articles in the window. It was of no use At last, tired of following Tommy's eyes about 



LITTLE JINGLES. 



[November, 



the window, Susan looked around, and, across the 
street, she saw her father going home from the 
office. One of the greatest delights of her life was 
to take a walk with her father, and so she hurriedly 
said to the little boy, " Here, Tommy, take the 
money and buy something for yourself. I am going 
home with father." 

Tommy was delighted to be free from Susan. 
She worried and bothered him in his choice. Now 
he felt he could select something he would like with- 
out having her "nagging" him all the time, and 
telling him that things cost too much. 

So he walked boldly into the store with his twenty- 
five cents clutched in his chubby fist. After a very- 
short tour of inspection he stepped up to the man 
at the counter. 

" I want one of them sleds," said he, pointing to 
a number of handsomely painted sleighs and sledges 
near the door. 

" Which one will you have ?" said the man, com- 
ing-out from behind the counter, and separating 
one or two of the sleds from the others, " this green 
one, or this blue one with red runners ?" 

Tommy hesitated. The blue one was very hand- 
some, but the green one had a horse painted on the 
seat, This latter fact decided him. 



known whether you 
before you asked for 

a quarter ? " asked 



•• I'il take the green one," said he. 

" That is three dollars and a half," said the man, 
looking at Tommy, and, noticing, apparently for 
the first time, what a very little boy he was. 

" But it's too much," said Tommy. "I've only got 
a quarter." 

The man laughed. 

"You ought to have 
had money enough or not, 
it," said he. 

" Are all sleds more'n 
Tommy. 

" Yes," said the shopman. 

" Good-by," said Tommy, and out he marched. 

On his way home he passed a peanut stand. 
Happy opportunity ! Tommy stepped up to the 
man and demanded twenty-five cents' worth of pea- 
nuts. Peanuts were cheap in those days, and when 
Tommy's little pockets were all full, and his hat 
would scarcely go on his head for nuts, and he had 
even stuffed some in the waistband of his trousers, 
there were yet ever so many peanuts and no Dlacc 
to put them. 

" Bother on twenty-five cents !" said Tommy. 
" In some places it's too little, and in some places 
it's too much !" 



LITTLE JINGLES. 




Snow, snow, everywhere ! 
Snow on frozen mountain peak, 
Snow on Flippit's sunny hair, 
Snow flakes melting on his cheek. 
Snow, snow, wherever you go, 
Shifting, drifting, driving snow. 



But Flippit does not care a pin, 

It's Winter without and Summer within. 

So, tumble the flakes, or rattle the storm, 

He breathes on his fingers and keeps them warm. 



Tinker, come bring your solder, 

And mend this watch for me. 
Haymaker, get some fodder, 

And give my cat his tea. 
Cobbler, my horse is limping; 

He'll have to be shod anew ; 
While the smith brings forge and hammer, 

To make my daughter a shoe. 
Bestir yourselves, my lazies ! 

I give you all fair warning : 
You must do your work 'twixt twelve at night, 

And an hour before one in the morning. 



How did they learn that their ways were small? 

Jean and Kitty — 
How did they know they were scorned by all ? 

Jean and Kitty — 
Why, they listened one day, at a neighbor's blinds, 
And heard the family speak their minds — 

What a pity ! 



i8 73 .] 



AN OLD-FASHIONED HAT. 



AN OLD-FASHIONED HAT. 



By Olive Thorne. 



A LONG time ago, when we old folks were young, 
when girls wore big bonnets — and never dreamed of 
wearing a hat like a boy's, — there was in fashion a 
small fairy-like hat of silver or gold, to wear on the 




JEAN AND KITTY. 

finger. Every girl had one, and was taught to use 
it almost as soon as she was out of her cradle ; 
young ladies wore it nearly all the time, and as for 
mothers — why, they scarcely took it off to go to bed. 
They were very pretty little things made of gold 
or silver, as I said, and though they are somewhat 
out of style just now, I think you will like to know 
a little about them. The Germans call them fin- 
ger-hats, and our English forefathers, who had time 
to give long names to everything, called them 



thumb-bells ; but of late the world has got into such a 
hurry that we've shortened that pretty name into 
thimble, and now, of course, you think you know 
all about them. 

You may know how one 
looks, and what it is for, 
though, thanks to sewing- 
machines, you don't have 
to wear it much, and the 
time is long gone by when 
it was necessary to every 
girl's good name that she 
should embroider a "sam- 
pler" full of letters and 
figures, and have it framed 
and hung up before she 
was a dozen years old. But 
I don't believe you know 
how it comes to be a dainty 
little finger-hat instead of a 
silver spoon, or a gold ring. 
I can assure you it has a 
history of its own, and it 
has been through many 
trials and wonderful adven- 
tures since the time it was 
sleeping in its native bed 
under the ground. It would 
be as interesting as a fairy 
story if you could have the 
true story of a thimble, 
either of gold or silver. 

Why, how many persons 
do you suppose it has 
taken to bring it from 
the state of tiny specks to 
the pretty little thing it 
is? Not to count miners, 
or crushers, or refiners, or 
any of those people, but 
to begin when it enters the 
thimble factory, it takes 
about twenty workmen, besides lots of machinery, to 
make it. 

It begins with the rollers — monstrous great rollers 
of steel — which think nothing of rolling a bar of silver 
out as thin as a sheet of paper if thinness is wanted. 
For thimbles, however, it is rolled about a twenti- 
eth of an inch thick, and cut into strips two inches 
wide. It looks like a beautiful silver ribbon, and 
one hates to see it go to a remorseless steel punch, 
which champs away all day, taking out bites about 



THE ZEBRA. 



[November, 




ZEBRA AND COLT. 



873 J 



THE ZEBRA. 



as big as a silver half-dollar (an old-fashioned 
American coin you may have heard your grand- 
mother mention). 

These round silver pieces are the future thimbles, 
as you'll see before they get through their tribula- 
tions in this house. 

The next torturing machine turns up the edge all 
around, making the foundation for the future rim. 
No one would suspect this round flat thing could 
ever get into the shape of a thimble, but the very 
next machine does the business. The unfortunate 
bit of silver is put into a press, a dreadful great steel 
thing comes down with a smash, and, behold ! there 
is your thimble, perfect in shape, though plain sil- 
ver without figures. 

The next thing is to turn over the edge and make 
it firm, and the thimble is ready for its "dimples," 
as some one calls the little holes made to catch the 
needle. 

The smooth silver finger-hat is put into a lathe — 
a machine that does nothing but turn things around 
— a workman sits down in front with a suitable tool, 
shaped something like a hammer, and while the 
thimble is whirling on the lathe he proceeds to cover 
the top with holes. First, he makes the one in the 
very middle, then a ring close around that, — look at 
one and you'll see, — and so he goes on across the 
top, and down the sides as far as it is wanted. 

Now, there's a curious thing happens while this 
bit of silver is whirling on the lathe. It makes very 
sweet musical sounds, higher or lower in tone as it 
turns fast or slow. Workmen sometimes get so 
expert that they can vary the sounds, by changing 
the speed, and fairly make the thimble sing a tune. 
That must be the moment of glory for the little 
thimble, for it is the first and last sound it ever 
makes. 

From the lathe the little thumb-bell goes to be 
polished, to have its number marked on it, and its 
pretty little border of leaves or figures engraved by- 



sharp steel tools, and by the time it is ready for the 
shop, it has only plain silver enough left to put your 
name on when you buy it. 

Brass and steel thimbles are made in very much 
the same way, though many of them, you know, 
have no tops, and are destined to the shops of 
tailors. 

When the finger-hat is of gold, the process is a 
little different. It is not cut from a solid piece 
like the silver thimble — by no means — in fact the 
gold thimble is a humbug and a sham, and goes 
through life on false pretenses, for the gold is only 
skin deep, and the rest is — common steel. 

Pope immortalized a thimble by describing one 
adorned with the face of a queen; but sewing-ma- 
chines are getting so perfect that perhaps before 
Pope is forgotten, there will have to be a note at 
the bottom of the page, explaining the use of that 
antique tool — the thimble. 

Silver and gold, and steel and brass, are not the 
only kinds of thimbles. There's the droll little 
black one, sometimes ornamented with a vine of 
gold leaves. That is made of hard rubber, and is 
very good for use, but not so pretty as silver. 
Then they have been made of ivory and china, but 
these were only to look at, I suspect. 

Whom we are to thank for the gift of thimbles we 
do not know, except that the inventor was a woman. 
Some writers say they came from the industrious 
dames of Holland with their quaint name of finger- 
hat, while others claim the invention for some small- 
footed lady of the Flowery Kingdom. 

1 think the probabilities are in favor of the Hol- 
landers. 

It is not quite two hundred years since they were 
introduced into England. How do you suppose 
ladies did the wonderful embroidery that has come 
down to us from those old times, book-covers, 
robes, and almost everything else, when they had no 
stout little thumb-bell to protect their fingers? 



THE ZEBRA. 



If the zebra were as useful as he is ornamental he 
would be one of the most valuable members of the 
horse family ; but, unfortunately, about all that can 
be done with the zebra is to look at him, and, if he 
happens to be out in his native wilds, one seldom 
gets a chance to look at him very long, for he is 
one of the fleetest and most timid of animals. 
The zebra generally lives in mountainous districts. 
He bounds up the sides of the hills and over the 
rocks as active and sure-footed as a goat. 

What a magnificent animal a tamed zebra would 



be for mountain travelers ! Instead of slowly toil- 
ing up the steep paths on the back of a donkey or 
a horse, one could dash up the mountain sides as 
if he were on a level plain, with no fear of tiring 
the powerful beast, and there would be no danger of 
his slipping, for a zebra that was in the habit of 
making missteps could never expect to arrive at ma- 
turity. But it is useless to dream of a tame ze- 
bra. Some of the most celebrated horse-tamers 
have endeavored to break the fiery spirit of ihis 
animal and make him submit to harness and sad- 



IO 



BY THE SEA. 



[November, 



die, but they have never 'entirely succeeded. It is 
just possible that a man like the celebrated Mr. 
Rarey, who seemed able to tame almost any horse 
in the world, might ride a zebra for a short dis- 
tance, but it would not do for anybody else to try 
it. A man or a boy who should once endeavor to 
ride a zebra would probably remember his failure 
for the rest of his life. 

But although it seems impossible to make much 
use of zebras, they are frequently hunted in South 
Africa, where they are principally found. The 
Hottentots are very glad to kill them, so as to 
have a zebra steak for dinner, for these savages 
consider zebra meat quite a delicacy, and are will- 



ing to take a great deal of trouble to get it. White 
hunters prefer to catch a zebra alive, and send 
him to civilized countries for exhibition, for there 
are few things more attractive in a menagerie than 
one of these beautiful animals, with his white, 
cream-colored skin and its rich velvety black bands. 
And if a zebra colt has been captured with its mother 
there are few boys, and, in fact, few grown-up folks 
who can pass their cage without stopping to look 
in. 

If the zebra had a long wavy tail like the horse, 
instead of a jackass' tail with a bushy tuft at the 
end, he might be still handsomer than he is. But 
then no animal can have everything. 



BY THE SEA. 
By Noah Brooks. 



BOYS who have been born and brought up by 
the sea wonder what sort of fun they who live in- 
land can possibly have. To be sure, there are the 
woods and streams to give them some sorts of sport ; 




it is true, they have squirrel and rabbit-hunting, the 
delights of gunning, the pleasure of "going in a- 
swimming," where the mill-pond and the pebbly 
streamlets sparkle in the sun or glide under the 
cool shadows of the willows ; but, as a boy, I used 
to think that the poor fellows who never knew salt 
water, nor saw the furious breakers dash on the 



rocky coast of New England, were much to be 
pitied. And when once, while I was a little chap, 
I was taken on a visit to Bucksport, it seemed as if 
I should stifle in the close air of the country town, 
which had no water near it 
but a contemptible river flow- 
ing past. The sea seemed so 
far away that I thought I 
should lose my breath before 
I could get back to its salt air 
again. But perhaps I was 
homesick. 

When the gale was high 
and the long rollers came 
thundering on the beach, 
Aunt Rachel used to take 
me by the hand and lead 
me along the lonely shore. 
It was almost terrible to look 
over the immense waves as 
they came piling over each 
other, and to see far out on 
the stormy sea, the dancing 
fishing-boats, now riding on 
top of the sea and now dis- 
appearing in the watery trough of the wind- 
swept ocean. Sometimes a bit of broken spar 
would come tumbling in from the far-off waves 
to tell its story of wreck and disaster. Once, while 
the gale was howling and the breakers were crash- 
ing along the shore, Aunt Rachel snatched from 
a foaming wave a piece of a ship's rail, with 



IC73-I 



BY THE SEA. 



I I 




part of a child's night-dress clinging to it. Where 
was the little one who had worn this garment? 
And in what dismal wreck had some distressed 
mother tied it to this floating wood? Nothing ever 
came from the sea tD tell us. 

But all was not sad and tragical by the sea. Such 
larks as we used to have by the Back Cove shores ! 
On Saturday afternoons we tore mussels from the 
rocks at low tide, or dug clams from the watery 
sand, and roasted them in fires of drift-wood. Or 
we built rafts of the loose wood along the beach and 
paddled about the broad cove. If the frail craft fell 
to pieces and let the half-naked youngsters into salt 
water, there were enough swimmers to save those 
who could not swim. Then there were the joys 
of boat-building and sailing ; 
; 1 1 1 < 1 I iju . i;.'i i h w c .\M' !i _ ":S_ j:_ : jr- - 

ed the rude little craft a, Bjjfe> e SJ EH 
their bin.lt bark bails faded Sft^-2 -3 =f JL i" 
away in the blue waters of the 
bay. In the drift, along the 
beach, we found all sorts of 
curious things; not only bits 
of wreck, but fragments of 
clothing, curious and unknown 
shells, foreign nuts ; and once 
the whole shore was strewn 
with big russet apples, lost 
overboard, perhaps, from some 
distressed trading schooner. 

Dearer than all this, even, 
were the rude wooden wharves 
that skirted the ancient town. 
The smell of tar and oakum, 
the odor of salted fish and the 
flavor of the brine were in the 



atmosphere of these delight- 
ful places. Here were rusty 
old anchors, huge and brown, 
over which we climbed, while 
we marveled what they had 
seen at the bottom of the great 
sea. Worn iron chain-cables 
were piled up with sun-bleached 
rigging and fragments of ship- 
houses and cabooses which 
should voyage no more. Here 
was a battered figure-head of 
King Philip, which had been 
scorched in the fierce suns of 
the Indian Ocean and had lost 
its nose in the icy Arctic. 
Here, once or twice a year, 
lay the two or three ships of 
Fairport, discharging salt from 
Cadiz and peopled with story- 
telling sailors who had sailed all the seas over 
and knew the most delightful yarns ever spun; 
of these Dave Booden was consummate. He 
had been a foremast hand "in the time of the 
embargo," when the British fleets blockaded the en- 
tire coast of New England. His tales were blood- 
curdling; and many is the night when we boys 
staid so late listening to the latest version of the 
story of his blowing up the Arethusa, that we were 
sent supperless to bed. The Arethusa was a British 
sloop-of-war blockading Casco Bay. Dave, who, 
by the way, always spoke of that period as " the time 
of dimbargo," was a prisoner of war on board, hav- 
ing been captured from a fishing-pinkey and kept as 
a pilot. By hurrahing for King George and other- 




12 



BY THE SEA. 



[November, 



wise pretending to be a good Tory, he gained the 
confidence of the crew; and one night, while laying 
at anchor off Diamond Head, he fixed a lighted fuse 
under the powder magazine, slipped through an 
open port-hole to a boat that was towing astern and 
so made off, paddling with his shoes for want of 
oars. 

" When that ere ship blowed up," said the truth- 
ful Dave, " I was nigh unto ten miles and a-half 
away. But she shook the air so, that I wuz blowed 
clean out o' that yawl jest straight. My cap went 
up three feet higher nor I did, and I went up about 
nine feet inter the air. What air ye sniggerin 
at ? " Dave would angrily demand of one boy who 
never would believe this part of the story. " When 
I lit agen, I jest sot right in the yawl on the very 
same thort that I was a-sittin' on afore ; and my cap 
was on my head, tew. Fact, boys, and ye may 
jest ask yer old gran'ther ef it ain't." Gran'ther 
Perkins, who commanded the American volunteers 
in the time of the embargo, had been dead ten 
years or more. Dave's story - - telling had no forti- 
fying witnesses. 

Once in a while — too often, alas ! — news would 
come in a round-about way, of a Fairport vessel 
lost at sea. Perhaps one of the survivors would, 
after many thrilling adventures, reach us, and 
become the sad hero of the town. Sometimes a 
fishing vessel would sail for the Banks, and never 
be heard of more. We boys 
would sit under the lee of 
the rocks, and fancy that one 
of the flitting sails that glid- 
ed along the blue line of 
the sea and sky, was. the 
missing vessel ; then, as she 
melted away, we would fall 
to inventing stories of the 
woful wreck, and whisper to 
each' other, how the men, 
some of whom we knew, 
had starved on the raft as 
they floated on the waves, 
until they ate each other, 
or struggled against their 
fate until they perished mis- 
erably in the waters. When 
night fell, and the full moon 
swam up the sky, we used 
to see Marm Morey sitting 
on Fish Hawk Crag, look- 
ing wistfully out to sea. 
Sol Morey, as brave a lad 
as ever split a cod-fish, be- 
calmed on Georges Banks, 




had sent word by a passing vessel that the Two 
Brothers, in which he sailed, would be in port by 
the full of the moon. The moon fulled and waned, 
and waxed and waned again, but the Two Broth- 
ers never came. Sol's mother watched and waited, 
and waited and watched, on Fish Hawk's Crag for 
many moons and many years. When the young 
moon hung pale in the sunset sky, she said, " Sol 
will be here soon." When it grew smaller, and 
disappeared from the heavens at night, she went 
about her work, and said never a word about Sol 
or the Two Brothers ; but we boys knew when the 
moon was full, for we saw Marm Morey on the crag, 
hopefully turning her faded face to the sea, watch- 
ing for the gleam of the sail that came no more. 

Considering what risks are run by boys about the 
sea-shore, it seems strange that no more of them 
are swallowed by the waves. Perhaps the remorse- 
less sea, as poets call it, has a savage pity for the 
small children who play about its edges. Certain, a 
kind Providence watches over the lives of the little 
folk, who snatch a fearful joy from the rush and 
tumult of the sea. Many a time we tumbled off the 
wharves, or upset in sail-boats, or were snatched off 
the rocks by the hungry breakers ; yet not one of 
all my playmates ever met his death thereby. 
They were spared to be killed by a flying railroad 
train, a falling roof-slate, an Alpine avalanche, 
or a stray bullet in the trenches before Peters- 
burg. Once • a little crowd 
of us, caught on a bare reef 
of rock by the rising tide, 
and cut off from shore, were 
driven from point to point, 
until huddled on Otter Rock, 
which was usually covered at 
high water. We sobbed and 
screamed in vain for help, 
while the mocking waves 
crept higher and higher. 
We faced death, then, every 
one of us. A few inches 
of slippery rock stood be- 
tween us and the end of the 
beautiful world that smiled 
around us. The tide crept 
on and on, stood still, and 
sunk away inch by inch until 
we were free ! We crawled 
along the weedy reef, and 
hushed and half-tearful, told 
our tale. The tides, at that 
season, were not so high as 
usual. But to us it seemed 
a miracle. Perhaps it was. 



'8 7 3-] 



WHAT THE WORM COULD AND DID DO. 



13 









ySi-' 













^ 






OH, NO! 



If blue-birds bloomed like flowers in a row. 
And never could make a sound, 

How would the daisies and violets know- 
When to come out of the ground ! 

They would wait and wait the seasons round : 
Never a flower could on earth be found. 



And what would birds and butterflies do 

If the flowers had wings to fly? 
Why, birds and blossoms, and butterflies too, 

Would stay far up in the sky; 
And then the people would droop and sigh, 

And all the children on earth would cry. 



WHAT THE WORM COULD AND DID DO. 
By Margaret Eytinge. 



He had dark curly hair — very curly — curling al- 
most as tight as the tendrils of a grape-vine, and 
you all know how tight they curl. 

And he had bright grey eyes with long black 
lashes, and a funny little mouth that looked as 
though it was always asking questions, as, indeed, 
between you and me, it always was. 

And he was a boy five years and I don't know how 
many days old, and he had no sisters, or bro- 



thers, or cousins, or anything of that kind, or if he 
did have a cousin or two they didn't live there, so 
what was the use ? 

He played with the flowers, and stones and grass, 
and talked to the bees and the butterflies, and the 
dog and the cat, and he sang pretty songs with the 
birds, and his .name was " And why," because the 
funny little mouth said "And why ? " so often, but 
they called him Andy for short. 



14 



WHAT THE WORM COULD AND DID DO. 



[November,. 



He loved to play in the dirt, and he had a tiny 
garden for his very own, where one summer he 
raised one pea-vine and two radishes. 
• The reason he didn't raise any more pea-vines 
and radishes was because he kept digging up the 
seeds he had planted to see if they were growing 
yet; but this pea and these two radish seeds having 
rolled away and hidden in a corner, escaped being 
dug up, and so took root and became, as I said be- 
fore, a pea-vine and two round, red, crisp, very nice 
radishes. 

The two radishes Andy ate (I'm afraid he did not 
stop to wash them), and the pea-vine, after putting 
forth five sweet pink blossoms that looked like angel 
butterflies, died because it was so lonely. 

Well, one day Andy was digging in his very own 
garden just after a shower, when he spied a big worm. 

Worms are not pleasant things. I don't think 
that anybody would make a pet of one, and al- 
though I've tried very hard, I can not say that I really 
love them myself; but I'm not afraid of them, and 
neither, I am glad to say, was Andy. 

He didn't run away as fast as he could, tumbling 
over all sorts of things until he reached the house, 
nor did he dance up and down screaming "oh! oh! 
oh !" when this worm came out of the ground. Not 
a bit of it. 

He sat quietly down on an overturned flower-pot 
and looked at the worm in silence for at least two 
minutes, and the worm raised its head a little 
(worms can't raise their heads very high) and look- 
ed at him. 

At last said Andy, "You're not pretty." 

"I am not," answered the worm. 

"You can't dance," said Andy. 

'"I can't;" said the worm. 

"Nor sing," said Andy. 

"Nor sing," repeated the worm. 

" You don't know your letters, even," said Andy. 

"I don't," said the worm. 

"Butterflies can fly," said Andy. 

" They can," said the worm. 

"Bees hum," said Andy. 

"They do," said the worm. 

" You can't do anything," said Andy. 

"I CAN," said the worm, so loudly (for a worm) 
that Andy tumbled off the flower-pot, he was so 
very much astonished. 

But quickly picking himself up, he sat down 
again, and asked, "What?" 



"Something that bees, birds, and even boys 
can't do," answered the worm, wriggling a little, 
as naughty girls do when they say, "So there now, 
you think yourself something great." 

"Let's see," said Andy. 

"Take your little spade and chop me in two," 
said the worm. 

"Oh, no," said Andy, "that would be wicked." 

"Well, don't you ever do it unless a worm asks 
you to," said the worm, " then it's all right. Now 
I'm ready, go ahead." 

"Are you sure you're in earnest:" asked Andy. 

"Quite sure," answered the worm. 

"And won't it hurt you ?" asked Andy. 

"Don't ask so many questions; do as I tell 
you," replied the worm. 

"And why?" said Andy; but seeing that the 
worm was turning away from him he seized his little 
spade and chopped it in two, and lo ! and behold ! 
one-half crept off one way and one-half the other. 




8s V'Uv wfcrZL&s'^ " i 



:w- -r. 



"Well, sure enough," said Andy, "I don't be- 
lieve I could do that. Good-bye Mr. Worm — I 
mean two Mr. Worms." 

"Good-bye" said the head, and "good-bye" 
said the tail ; and they both crept under the ground 
and left Andy to ask, "And why?" until this very 
day. 



73] 



PASSENGER PIGEONS. 



'5 



PASSENGER PIGEONS. 



By M. T. 



For many days the fresh morning air had 
resounded with the dull bumming of the prairie 
chickens, and an unbroken line of snowy "schoon- 
ers," as the emigrant wagons are called on the prai- 
ries, had slowly moved westward. These wagons 
were followed by droves of cattle ; and the cattle 
were driven by brown, dusty women, bare-footed 
and scantily clothed in blue drilling or patched and 
faded chintz. I had looked curiously at the labor- 
saving churns in which butter was made by the mere 
motion of the jolting wagons ; I had questioned 
the rough-looking Germans and Norwegians, who 
often could not speak a word of English ; and I 
was never weary of watching for the bright eyes of 
the dingy-faced little children, who sometimes 
peeped from the wagons. When these weary trav- 
elers halted by the wayside,' and their gipsy fires 
blazed out into the night, what wild sweet singing 
was borne across the prairie on the evening breeze ! 

But one day I forgot my slow-plodding friends, 
in the excitement of watching the passage of a 
multitude of travelers, who could no more be num- 
bered than the sands upon the sea-shore. What a 
commotion the shy strangers made that early May 
morning ! I was startled from sleep by a voice 
crying " Mollie ! The pigeons ! " and a strange 
sound, like the rushing of a strong wind, came to 
my ears. The air was full of flying birds, and for 
hours I watched the immense flock pass over that 
little prairie village in Minnesota. 

Most boys and girls- who live in the country have 
seen wild pigeons, and know what graceful birds 
they are. The muscles of their wings are very 
large and strong. Audubon says that these 
pigeons travel at the rate of a mile in a minute, 
and that if one of them were to follow the fashion, 
and take a trip to Europe, it could cross the ocean 
in less than three days. We can all exclaim with 
David, " Oh, that I had wings like a dove ! " But 
quite as wonderful as their speed, is the great power 
of vision these birds possess. As they journey 
through space, they can overlook hundreds of acres 
at once, and their sharp eyes can discover at a 
glance whether the country beneath them is barren, 
or supplied with the food they need. 

On the day I speak of, the birds flew very low, and 
hundreds of them alighted on the trees in passing. 
They often alight, in such numbers that great 
branches are broken off, and sometimes the 
pigeons are crushed to death. The fields bordering 
the river were covered with them ; but they oniy 
stopped to rest, apparently, or perhaps to pick up a 



little food, and were again on the wing. As these 
detachments of the vast army of pigeons rose from 
the ground, with a great flapping of wings, others 
alighted ; meanwhile the main flock was passing 
steadily over our heads. The procession seemed 
endless, for the day wore on, and still the swift- 
winged birds rustled through the air, and still the 
coming flocks looked like delicate pencilings on the 
distant sky. It was a rare day for sportsmen. In- 
stead of roosting in a neighboring forest, as we had 
hoped, the pigeons flew over into Wisconsin. But 
every day through the summer, stray flocks foraged 
among the oak groves about us, and their shadows 
swept over sunny slopes and fields of waving grain, 
like flitting clouds. 

" I didn't suppose there were so many pigeons in 
North America ! " exclaimed a young trapper who^ 
visited this roost not long ago, and who, in his first 
surprise at the wonderful scene before him, forgot 
all about his game. The piece of woods that the 
pigeons selected in which to rear their young, 
is three or four miles wide, and ten miles long. 
Their nests were in every tree ; sometimes more 
than fifty nests could be seen in one tree. In each 
of these frail nests, carelessly woven of a few twigs, 
two white shining eggs were laid. It is said that 
the father and mother birds take care of these eggs 
in furn. When the pigeons fly through the woods, 
the sound of their wings is almost deafening ; an 
old farmer compared it to the roar of ten thousand 
threshing machines ! 

From their nesting place the birds flew all over 
Minnesota, Iowa, and Wisconsin, in quest of food; 
but they always returned as the sun went down, 
though the roost was hundreds of miles distant. 

When the young pigeons or squabs are almost 
ready to fly, comes the exciting time known 
as robbing the roost. Men arm themselves with 
long poles, with which they upset the nests ; the 
poor squabs fall to the ground, and arc easily 
caught in large quantities. They can then be 
kept in cages, fattened, and killed as they are 
wanted. 

The passenger pigeon does not migrate from one 
part of the country to another to find a warmer 
climate, but only in search of food. So many of 
these birds are killed every year, for the New York 
and other markets, that it seems as if they must 
gradually disappear. But they multiply very fast, 
and Audubon, the naturalist, thought that nothing 
but the destruction of our forests could lessen their 
number. 



i6 



GRANDMOTHER. 



[November, 








^nv^««? :r - 



■8 7 3-l 



IN THE TREE -TOP. 



'7 



GRANDMOTHER. 

By Elsie G . 



FOR a long time I did not understand it at all. I 
thought that, because grandmothers often were 
feeble and old-fashioned, they could never really 
feel as we children do ; that they needed no par- 
ticular notice or enjoyment, for it was their nature 
to sit in rocking-chairs and knit. They seemed 
quite different from the rest of the world, and not 
to be especially thought about ; that is, by girls 
who were as full of merry plans as we were. 

Grandmother lived with us, as father was her 
only son. We had a vague idea that she helped 
mother mend the clothes and knitted all father's 
winter stockings, beside some pairs for the church- 
society. We were supposed to love her, of course, 
and were never openly rude, for indeed we had 
been taught to be polite to all aged persons. As 
for grandmother, she was one of those peaceful 
souls who never make any trouble, but just go on 
in their own way so quietly that you hardly know 
they are in the house. Mother sat with her some- 
times, but we girls, in our gay, busy pursuits, rarely 
thought of such a thing. She seemed to have no 
part in our existence. 

It went on so for some time, till one day I hap- 
pened at sundown to go into the sitting-room, and 
there sat grandmother, alone. She had fallen 
asleep in her chair by the window. The sun was 
just sinking out of sight, leaving a glory of light as 
he went, and in this glory I saw grandmother — 
saw her really for the first time in my life ! 



She had been reading her Bible, and then, as if 
there had been no need of reading more, since its 
treasure already lay shining in her soul, she had 
turned the book over upon her lap and leaned back 
to enjoy the evening. 

I saw it all in a moment, — her gentleness, her 
patience, her holiness. Then, while her love and 
beautiful dignity seemed to fold about me like a 
bright cloud, the sweet every-day lines in her face 
told me a secret, that even then in the wonderful 
sunset of life she was, O, how human ! So human 
that she missed old faces and old scenes ; so human 
that she needed a share of what God was giving 
us, — friends, home interests, little surprises and ex- 
pectations, loving offices, and, above all, a recogni- 
tion in the details of our fresh young lives. 

Girls ! when grandmother woke up, she found us 
all three stealing softly into the room ; for God had 
helped me, when I went to tell my sisters about it. 
Mary only kissed her and asked if she had had a 
good nap ; Susie picked her ball of yarn off the 
carpet, where it had rolled, and began to wind it, all 
the while telling her a pleasant bit of news about 
one of the school-girls ; and I — well, I knelt down 
at grandmother's feet and, just as I was going to 
cry, I gave her knees a good hard hug, and told 
her she was a darling. 

That's all, girls. But it's been different ever since 
from what it was before. 



IN THE TREE-TOP. 



By Lucy Larcom. 



"ROCK-A-BY, baby, up in the tree-top !" 
Mother his blanket is spinning ; 
And a light little rustle that never will stop, 

Breezes and boughs are beginning. 
Rock-a-by, baby, swinging so high ! 
Rock-a-by ! 

"When the wind blows, then the cradle will rock. 
Hush ! now it stirs in the bushes ; 
Now with a whisper, a flutter of talk, 

Baby and hammock it pushes. 
Rock-a-by, baby ! shut, pretty eye ! 
Rock-a-by ! 
Vol. I.— 2. 



' Rock with the boughs, rock-a-by, baby, dear ! 
Leaf-tongues are singing and saying ; 
Mother she listens, and sister is near, 

Under the tree softly playing. 
Rock-a-by, baby ! mother's close by ! 
Rock-a-by ! 

Weave him a beautiful dream, little breeze ! 

Little leaves, nestle around him ! 
He will remember the song of the trees. 

When age with silver has crowned him. 
Rock-a-by, baby ! wake by-and-by ! 
Rock-a-by ! 



i8 



THE ENCHANTED PRINCE. 



fNoVEMBER, 



THE ENCHANTED PRINCE. 
By Rebecca Harding Davis. 



Once upon a time there was a boy whose name 
was Leon, whose father was a banished king, living 
as a wood-cutter in a hut in a great forest ; but a 
magician had laid them both under such cruel en- 
chantment, that instead of the forest, people only 
saw two or three scraggy cherry-trees in a back- yard, 
and the king passed for a country doctor, and 
Leon went by the name of Bob, and was sent for 
cheese and molasses to the grocery, and thrashed 
at. school, just as though he had not been a prince 
at all. It was very fortunate that he himself knew 
what he was. 

One day he had more trouble than usual. Two 
of his milk teeth were pulled and left a gap in his 
upper jaw, and giant Blunderbore ( who had left 
one of his heads at home and was keeping a candy 
shop in disguise — though Bob knew him quite well) 
accused him of robbing his melon-patch, and in 
fact beat him. 

The worst of it was, that although the prince lived 
altogether on wild honey, and collops and pasties of 
the fat stags often shot by himself and Robin Hood, 
Bob had a remembrance of plugging a melon that 
was not bought at the grocery store. Put him on 
his oath and he could not swear he had not stolen it. 

As things were in this confused and uncertain 
state, he resolved to set out that night to seek his 
fortune. Having had this business on his mind for 
some time, he was soon ready. Filling a bottle with 
clear water from the brook (which some people 
supposed only to be a horse-trough), and putting, 
with some difficulty, half a loaf of bread in his belt, 
he mounted his steed and set out by the light of 
the moon. 

Now this prince's village was enchanted in such 
a manner that it appeared to be a noisy, dirty mill- 
town ; but it was surrounded by sandy hills, and 
immediately on the other side of these hills lay the 
dark and bloody ground of Cornwall, whose princi- 
pal productions are scarlet runner beans and giants, 
and whose history was, how they were slain by Jack ; 
only now Jack was dead, and a new crop of giants 
had sprung up, with several heads apiece. Outside 
of the hills, too, lay the wilderness through which 
Christian traveled, and the prince naturally wanted 
to know if Greatheart was still escorting pilgrims 
through its pits of fire, and whether the lions yet 
guarded the House Beautiful, and especially he 
wished to get some of the green apples which gave 
Matthew such horrible gripes in the stomach. 
Back of the hills, too, was the ocean with Cru- 
soe's island, and Bagdad, and the Spanish main. 



About the time when the tallow candle was 
lighted for Bob, and he was sent from his father's 
shop up to bed, dark nights were beginning out 
yonder, full of meteors, and double suns, and 
armies marching in the sky overhead. Be- 
low, great genii burst like thunder-clouds out 
of crocks, and glittering fairies danced in rings 
through the moss, by moonlight, and the Ca- 
liph, Haroun al Raschid, with black Mesrour at 
his elbow, listened to stories from one-eyed calen- 
dars of women turned into mares ; and Robert Kyd 
sailed and sailed through the pitchy darkness past 
the Spice islands to the beach where his dead bo'sen 
stood guard over the treasure, or boarded ships with 
his black flag and skull and cross-bones flying 
apeak, and gave no quarter. 

When the prince arrived at the hills, he met 
Desiderio. She was the fair maiden for whom he 
was going out to fight ; all princes go out to fight 
for a fair maiden. He had never seen Desiderio 
before, but he took her upon his saddle all the same, 
and fully intended, after he had killed a dragon or 
giant or something, to bring her back to the castle 
in triumph and marry her. Sometimes she wore a 
robe of white samite, embroidered with gold, and 
sometimes was in rags like Cinderella. She was 
not fat and solid, like Josie Wilkinson, the carpen- 
ter's daughter, although she had Josie's red head 
and pug nose, but she was quite light and trans- 
parent, like a bubble-girl. 

As they journeyed through the wilderness, Desi- 
derio said, " I am hungry, break me a piece of thy 
manchet ;" and then Bob was quite convinced she 
was a real princess from the correctness of her lan- 
guage. 

" I shall not break, but cut it with my sword," 
he said. Which he did after some sawing and 
hacking, putting a small chunk of crust in his 
pocket, for his own supper. " It will go well with 
jam," he thought to himself. 

" What will be thy first adventure?" quoth Desi- 
derio, when she had eaten the bread. 

"I shall go in search of the head of the Nile. 
I've intended to do that ever since I got to ' Egypt,' 
in Mitchell's Primary." 

"And after that?" 

" After that, about tea time, we will come back 
in triumph to be crowned and married." 

But Desiderio laughed, and said nothing. 

So he held her with his right hand, for she was 
as lumpy and heavy as unrisen dough, although 
she seemed so light, and took his sword in his left. 



I873-] 



THE ENCHANTED PRINCE. 



19 



Before he discovered the source of the Nile, he 
passed through an entire swamp, full of serpents, 
besides running the gauntlet between double rows 
of griffins. Two or three stray giants also met 
them as they were taking a short cut through a 
whirlpool, but the prince settled them with a whisk 
or two of his sword. Nobody, who is not a boy and 
a prince, knows how easily such adventures are 
achieved. It was just six o'clock when they set 
out, and at quarter to eight precisely, they reached 
the end of their journey, and discovered that the river 
was spouted up (as Bob had long suspected) by 
an enchanted gigantic monster, something like a 
whale (the same who had a dispute with Solomon, 
and was sentenced to be buried in the sand up to 
his nose, for two thousand years). 

" So that's settled," said Bob. " I always knew 
how it would turn out. A pretty to-do there will be 
when the enchantment's taken off him." He filled 
a flask with water out of the whale's nostrils to prove 
his discovery. " Now we'll go home and be mar- 
ried," said he. 

But the princess laughed and looked more like a 
fair brilliant bubble than before. " You must 
achieve another adventure before you can win 
me." 

" I have always intended to dig down into the 
middle of the world and see what is there," said Bob, 
after thinking awhile. " Indeed I began in the bot- 
tom of the potato-patch, but mother put pumpkin 
seeds in the hole, supposing I dug it for planting." 

"That will do very well. Begin to dig," said 
Desiderio, promptly seating herself on his shoulders. 
Bob had only a crooked stick to dig with, but like 
all heroes, he got on very well, and was soon down 
some fifty miles or so. But Desiderio began to be 
very heavy. She was also very hungry and so was 
Bob. 

"Break me another piece of thy manchet," she 
said. And taking out his crust he found it covered 
inch deep with jam of the best raspberries, also a 
thick layer of icing on top. 

He had never been so hungry in his life. He 
looked at Desiderio and he looked at the jam. 
Then he gave it to her with a dreadful sigh, put- 
ting one small bite in his pocket for himself. 

"That will keep me alive until we reach home. 
Perhaps they'll have muffins for supper," he 
thought. 

When they reached the middle of the world, at 
about eleven o'clock, they discovered the shell of 
a roc's egg — a very large roc's egg. 

"The whole world has evidently been hatched 
out of this," said Bob, "and sent clucking off among 
the clouds to grow. Well, now, we'll go home and 
be married, and I'll warrant you we'll have some- 
thing to eat." 



"Very well," said Desiderio. "But you must 
carry me home for the love you bear me." , 

Now, they had had to pass through a lake of 
fire on their way down, and another packed full 
of blocks of ice, which I forgot to mention ; and 
the princess, though she looked like a breath of 
vapor, weighed weight, and not a few pounds either. 

"For the love I bear you," thought he, and he 
hoisted her bravely upon his shoulders, smiling on 
her courteously, as the Seven Champions of Chris- 
tendom always did on distressed damsels. But the 
calves of his legs ached tremendously. 

On the way back (after the lake of fire and the 
ice-pack, miles deep) he met and slew sixteen 
dragons of distinct species; he also put to death a 
wild boar and led a small cohort of Roman soldiers 
against forty-three thousand savage cannibals and 
was victorious in every engagement, and was 
crowned with bay leaves and followed wherever he 
went with multitudes of people, especially Turkish 
slaves bearing golden salvers full of jewels, who 
hailed him with cries of "lo Triumphe ! Hail, 
Thane of Cawdor ! " 

"I really think we shall soon be married and 
have supper," he observed to the princess. But 
she laughed again scornfully. 

"There is the desert yet to pass before you can 
win me," she said. 

Now, the desert was a vast plain extending far 
beyond the world's edge, and quite covered with 
snow, unmelted since time began, and all the winds 
of heaven beat upon it. When the prince began 
to cross it, his strength left him and he was feeble 
as an old man, and felt his way slowly with groping 
hands. Desiderio left his shoulder and fluttered 
before him. It seemed to him that she was thin- 
ner and more like the air than before. He put out 
his hands but could not reach her. 

"When thou canst touch me thou shalt indeed be 
Hero and King," she cried. But her voice was far- 
off like the echo which distant bells leave on the 
air. 

There were neither dragons nor griffins nor Ro- 
man cohorts here. It was just to toil along the 
wind-beaten plain, hungry unto death. At last he 
remembered the bit of bread and flask of water, 
and took them out to keep him alive. 

Now the bread had turned into plum cake, fuller 
of raisins than any you ever saw, and the water was 
cold and sparkled in the sun. 

"Give them to me," cried the princess, "for the 
love you bear me." 

Whereupon he handed them to her, and a sud- 
den darkness fell upon them. But she ate the last 
crumb and drank the last drop. Then she faded 
farther and farther, as fair and faint as the rainbow 
colors that sometimes shine through tears on our 



20 



THE FARALLONE ISLANDERS. 



[November, 



lashes, and he could only hear her voice as though 
it came from the under-world. 

Just then the giant who had put this prince and 
his father under enchantment long ago, seized him 
and wrapped him up in his arms. They were cold 
and flabby as the clammy touch of the cuttle- 
fish ; and they carried him out of the desert back 
to his trundle-bed, and when he awoke, his tallow 
candle had burned out in the tin candlestick, and 
he was only Bob. Never Leon again. 

So he went on and on, to school and to college, 
just like any other Bob, and he married Josie Wil- 
kinson ; and now he is about as old and fat as your 
papa, and combs his hair up over his bald head in 
a friz, to hide the baldness. And he sells sugar 
and coffee by the barrel, and always has his meals 
at regular hours, and never calls a piece of bread a 
manchct, or wishes for jam or icing. 

But he keeps his secret about all that he has 
done. When he hears of Speke, and Grant, and 
Sir Samuel Baker, hunting through Africa for the 



source of the Nile, he says to himself, "What non- 
sense ! " 

Because he knows that he round it long ago. 
Or when he reads of geologists exploring the depth 
of the earth below the solid granite, he remembers 
the shell of the roc's egg. But he says nothing. 
Nor when he looks at his wife does he tell her of the 
princess who faded, long ago, into thin air; but at 
Christmas time, when all men who are men, turn 
into boys again, he knows that these things were 
real, and that he was a prince in disguise, and that 
his store and fat wife and solid babies will vanish 
some day like a dream, and the real things return. 
Strangers, looking into his face, ask sometimes, 
what wonderful history he has had, or whether he 
is not a hero in some sort of way, which the people 
around him, of course deny, and tell them that 
he is only a grocer. 

But he knows. And he is kinder to Josie and his 
babies, and he loves them all the better for the sake 
of Desiderio, whom he lost, long ago, in the desert. 



THE FARALLONE ISLANDERS. 
By John Lewees. 






SEALS ENJOYING THEMSELVES 



In the Pacific Ocean, off the coast of California, ago, by the Spaniards, the " Farallones de los Fray- 
is a group of three small rocky islands, named, long les," or the Friars' Islands.. They are often of great 



B-3-1 



THE FARALLONK ISLANDERS. 



21 



advantage as landmarks for 
sailors ; for they are quite con- 
spicuous, and lie about thirty 
miles west of the "Golden 
Gate," that beautiful entrance 
to the Bay of San Francisco. 
These islands are inhabited 
— indeed, their population is 
quite large. The principal 
inhabitants may be divided 
into three classes : seals, shags 
and sea-gulls. Human be- 
ings are there sometimes, but 
■only as visitors. 

The seals, some of which 
are so large that they are 
called sea-lions, are the most 
permanent residents, for the 
shags (which are small cor- 
morants) and the sea-gulls 
"will fly away sometimes. 
But one can nearly always 
see the seals playing on the 
rocks. And seals are ob- 
jects of great interest to the 
San Francisco people. Near 
the city, and only a short 
distance from a hotel on the 
shore, is a rock called Seal 
Rock, which is generally cov- 
ered with seals, which sport 
there for their own amuse- 
ment and that of the 
spectators on the shore. 
They are not afraid to show 

themselves, for no one is allowed to molest them, 
and they may have found out that they are under 
protection of some kind. There are few animals 
more easily tamed than seals. Out on the Far- 
allones there are a great many more seals than 
are to be seen on the Seal Rock. But fewer peo- 
ple see them, for it is necessary to go in a vessel 
to reach these islands. Here the seals seem to 
spend a curious existence. They climb up out 
of the water and they slip down into it again. 
They sleep in the sun, and they wake up and 
bark and slip into the sea, and then they climb 
out again and bark, and bark, and bark. Most 
persons have heard seals bark in a menagerie, 
and they can imagine the effect of hundreds of 
these creatures barking all at once. If one of 
them can get on a high peak of rock he gen- 
erally barks the loudest. And then they slip, 
and slide, and climb, and sleep and bark all their 
lives long. 

But the sea-gulls and shags which you see on 




SHAGS AND SEA-GULLS 



the high rocks in the above picture have a more 
lively time, for they can fly. They are very grace- 
ful birds on the wing ; and although they are very 
patient while sitting on the eggs in their nests, 
which they build on the highest rocks in the 
islands, they must be delighted when the hatching 
season is over and they can fly over the ocean and 
over the land, sweeping and circling, and diving 
and rising all day, as free and almost as swift as 
the wind. 

But these poor shags and gulls have their 
troubles. Men come to the islands and carry 
away their eggs to take to the San Francisco 
market ; and as for the very young gulls, they 
are killed and salted down like herrings. They 
are considered good eating, but the old gulls 
take so much exercise that their flesh is very 
tough. 

In the air, in the water, or on shore these 
inhabitants of the Farallone Islands are certainly 
interesting creatures. 



22 



HERMANN, THE DEFENDER OF GERMANY. 



[November, 



HERMANN, THE DEFENDER OF GERMANY. 
By E. A. Bradin. 



Of course, many of my young readers have heard 
of Julius Caesar and his conquests, and they re- 
member that, at the time of our Saviour's birth, 
almost all the known world belonged to the Roman 
Emperor. Before this, many kingdoms had, one 
by one, become great and powerful, but each, in 
its turn, was subdued, and now only the Roman 
Empire possessed either power or influence. Even 
Greece, the land of Achilles and Miltiades, Leon- 
idas and Alexander, was now a province of Rome. 
But there were some nations further north that 
the great Roman Empire had not been able to 
entirely subdue. Britain, Gaul (or France) and 
Germany all had been invaded. The first two 
were conquered, although the Romans never had 
much influence in Britain ; but the brave and war- 
like Germans were still independent. Germany 
was not then what it is now. Instead of beautiful 
castles on the tops of the hills, with sunny fields 
and vineyards, stretching down to pleasant valleys, 
the country was wild and uncultivated ; the hills 
were covered with dark forests, between whose 
leaves the bright, warm sunshine seldom fell. 

The Germans were tall, strong men, with blue 
eyes and yellow hair, brave and powerful, generous 
and faithful. They loved their fatherland then 
as fondly as now ; and the Romans had to fight 
many and many a battle before they conquered 
enough of the country to place garrisons even on 
its borders. 

In the time of the Emperor Augustus, who 
reigned from B. C. 27 to A. D. 14, Hermann, or 
Arminius, a young German prince, was taken cap- 
tive and carried to Rome, where he was brought 
up. He was made, by the Emperor, a Knight and 
a Roman citizen. The citizenship was considered a 
great honor, as it brought with it certain privileges 
which those who were not citizens, even though 
they had been born in the Roman Empire, could 
not enjoy. Hermann was better educated than 
most of the other Germans, who still were ignor- 
ant and uncivilized ; and, what was more import- 
ant for him, he understood just how the Romans 
managed their armies and fought their battles. 
He loved his country so dearly, that even in the 
midst of the comfort and luxury around him, he 
often sadly thought that Roman soldiers guarded 
its borders, and that though it was not yet con- 
quered, it was not perfectly free. As he grew 
older, he determined to save his dear fatherland. 
He married Thusuelda, the daughter of Segestes, a 
German chief, who was a traitor to his country and 



the Romans' friend. He did not wish his daughter 
to marry Hermann, but the chief carried her off, 
and she made him a loving and devoted wife. 
In revenge, Segestes accused Hermann, before the 
Roman Governor, of intending to attack the Ro- 
mans. This treachery so roused the noble German, 
that he determined to lead his oppressed country- 
men to a general revolt. 

His plans had to be very carefully laid, as the 
Romans were well armed, and were the best sol- 
diers in the world ; while the Germans had only 
simple weapons, no forts, or walled towns, and 
not enough provisions to last them, in case of a 
long siege. 

It would not do to attempt to attack the Romans 
in a pitched battle, that is, a regular fight in an 
open field, so Hermann determined to succeed by 
strategy. Varus, the Roman general, had only 
lately come into Germany. He was an unkind 
ruler, and oppressed the people in many ways, 
which, of course, made them all the more anxious 
to become again independent. 

Many severe rains had fallen, which swelled the 
streams, and made the muddy roads worse still for 
the Roman troops, whose dress and arms were 
heavier than those of the Germans. Suddenly, the 
tribes near the Visurgis and Amisia rivers, now 
the Weser and the Ems, in the north of Germany, 
rose against the Romans. The chiefs near Varus 
made him believe that it was necessary for him to 
go instantly to the spot and try to subdue them ; 
but they did not tell him that many other tribes 
were only waiting for a signal from Hermann tr> 
revolt also. 

Varus began his march, and, at last, while they 
were toiling on, Varus heard that the Germans 
had attacked the rear of his army. He pressed 
eagerly forward, but a shower of arrows and other 
weapons from the woods, on each side, showed him 
that the enemy were surrounding him. He, how- 
ever, arranged his camp for the night in the best 
place he could find, and the next day began again 
to march. He expected to find the greater part of 
the German army ready to fight; but Hermann let 
him go on for some time without disturbance, ex- 
cept from occasional showers of darts. At length 
the head of the army reached a thickly-wooded hill, 
and here the baggage-wagons had to be stopped, 
as Hermann had placed the trunks of trees across 
to delay the enemy. Then Hermann made his. 
great attack. The Romans fought bravely, but 
they were not fighting for their homes and father- 



I873-: 



HERMANN, THE DEFENDER OF GERMANY. 



2 3 



land, for their wives and children, like the Ger- 
mans ; they were struggling to conquer a free and 
noble nation, and they were defeated. The Ger- 
mans aimed often at the horses, who being wound- 
ed, threw their riders and then rushed wildly here 
and there, among the soldiers. At length, see- 
ing that all was lost, Varus threw himself upon his 
sword, and died. A band of Romans placed them- 
selves in a ring on a little mound and fought 
there till evening, but the next day they too were 
captured. In a little while the Roman garri- 
sons were destroyed, and this battle made Ger- 
many once more free. When the emperor received 
the news at Rome he was filled with grief. Beat- 
ing his head against the wall, he would cry 
out: "Varus, Varus, give me back my Roman 
legions." 

Some years after this, Segestes again quarreled 
with Hermann, and traitorously called upon the 
Romans to assist him. He gave himself up to 
Germanicus, the Roman general, and also betrayed 
his daughter, the dear wife of Hermann, into his 
hands. This roused Hermann to the fiercest rage. 
He called upon his countrymen to rise and chase 
their enemies from the land. Germanicus went 
first to the place where Varus was defeated, buried 
the bones of his countrymen, and raised a funeral 
pile to their memory. He fought with Hermann 
not far from here, and, the Romans say, gained a 
victory; but that is doubtful, as he immediately 
afterwards returned to the Rhine. Some of his 
troops went home by sea, but a part he sent with 
Csecina through the German country, ordering 
them to pass as soon as possible over the "long 
bridge," which stretched between two marshes. 
The Germans knew the road, and hastened to reach 
the woods on either side, before Cascina. 

When the Romans arrived, they found that the 
bridges needed repairing, and while they were at 
work Hermann attacked them. The Romans suf- 
fered terribly ; their armor was so heavy that the 
men sunk in the marshes, and so did their wagons; 
while the Germans, accustomed to this sort of fight- 
ing, used their long lances with perfect ease. 

At night, while the Romans slept, the Germans 
turned the courses of the mountain streams, and 
flooded the camp. Probably all would have been 
killed, as in the battle with Varus, if the Germans, 
in spite of all Hermann could do, had not seized 
upon the baggage, thus giving the Romans time 



to move off to a hill where they could form a camp. 
The next day, contrary to the advice of Hermann, 
the Germans attacked their enemies and were de- 
feated. 

There were no more battles after this for a year, i 
in which time the Germans had destroyed the 
monument erected to Varus. Germanicus entered 
Germany again, and encamped on the banks of 
the Weser, where a strange scene took place. Fla- 
vius, the brother of Hermann, had also been 
brought up at Rome, and he remained a Roman 
in heart. instead of taking up arms for his native 
country. Hermann approached as near as possible 
to the banks of the stream, and called aloud to 
ask if his brother were in the Roman ranks. 
Flavius came to the borders of the river, and an- 
swered to his call. Then an exciting scene took 
place. Hermann reproached Flavius bitterly for 
his treason to the fatherland, calling upon him in 
the name of the great German gods, of the dear 
German land, and above all, of their beloved 
mother, who still was true to her country, to give 
up the honors which the Romans had heaped upon 
him, and return. Flavius grew greatly excited, 
and so did Hermann; and, if those around had not 
interfered, they probably would have rushed across 
the stream and fought with each other. 

On the next day a battle took place between the 
Germans and part of the Romans, in which Her- 
mann was victorious ; but on the following day the 
rest of the Romans forded the stream, and defeated 
Hermann, who was severely wounded. Germani- 
cus raised a magnificent triumphal pile with a 
boastful inscription ; but he soon retreated towards 
the Rhine, which shows that his victory was not as 
great as he made it appear. 

Not long after this, the noble Hermann was mur- 
dered by some of his own people. Tacitus, a Latin 
historian, says that he tried to make himself king; 
but when we think of his self-sacrificing, disinter- 
ested life, we cannot believe this. Other historians 
say that he wanted to extend his power over some 
other tribes, not to become king. 

His countrymen raised to his memory a pillar with 
his statue upon it; and this was considered a sacred 
guardian of their land until the 9th century, when 
Charlemagne, King of the Franks, defeated the 
Germans, and carried away both the pillar and the 
statue of their beloved Hermann, the deliverer of 
his country. 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



[November, 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 
By Frank R. Stockton. 



Chapter I. 

HARRY LOUDON MAKES UP HIS MIND. 

On a wooden bench under a great catalpa tree, 
in the front yard of a comfortable country-house in 
Virginia, sat Harry and Kate Loudon worrying 
their minds. It was all about old Aunt Matilda. 

Aunt Matilda was no relation of these children. 
She was an old colored woman, who lived in a cabin 
about a quarter of a mile from their house, but 
they considered her one of their best friends. Her 
old log cabin was their favorite resort, and many a 
fine time they had there. When they caught some 
fish, or Harry shot a bird or two, or when they 
could get some sweet potatoes or apples to roast, 
and some corn-meal for ash-cakes, they would take 
their provisions to Aunt Matilda and she would cook 
them. Sometimes an ash-cake would be baked 
rather harder than it was convenient to bite, and it 
had happened that a fish or two had been cooked en- 
tirely away, but such mishaps were not common. 
Aunt Matilda was indeed a most wonderful cook — 
and a cook, too, who liked to have a boy and a girl 
by her while she was at work and who would tell them 
stories — as queer old stories as ever were told — 
while the things were cooking. The stories were 
really the cause of the ash-cakes and fish some- 
times being forgotten. 

And it is no wonder that these children were now 
troubled in their minds. They had just heard that 
Aunt Matilda was to go to the Almshouse. 

Harry and Kate sat silent. They had mourned 
over the news and Kate had cried. There was 
nothing more to be done about it, so far as she 
could see. 

But all of a sudden Harry jumped up. " I tell 
you what it is, Kate," he exclaimed, " I've made up 
my mind ! Aunt Matilda is not going to the Alms- 
house. I will support her myself ! " 

"Oh, that will be splendid!" cried Kate, "but 
you never can do it ! " 

"Yes, I can," said Harry. "There are ever so 
many ways in which I can make money." 

" What are you going to do ? " said Kate ; " will 
you let me help ? " 

"Yes," said her brother, "you may help if you 
can, but I don't think you will be of much use. As 
for me, I shall do plenty of things; I shall go out 
with my gun — " 

"But there is nothing to shoot, now in the 
Summer-time," said Kate. 

" No. there is n't much yet, to be sure," said her 



brother, "but before very long there will be part- 
ridges and hares; plenty of them; and father and 
Captain Caseby will buy all I shoot. And then you 
see until it is time for game I'm going to gather 
sumac." 

" Oh ! I can help you in that," cried Kate. 

"Yes, I believe you can," said her brother. 
"And now, suppose we go down and see Aunt 
Matilda, and have a talk with her about it." 

"Just wait until I get my bonnet," said Kate. 
And she dashed into the house, and then, with a 
pink calico sunbonnet on her head, she came down 
the steps in two jumps, and the brother and sister, 
together, hurried through the woods to Aunt Ma- 
tilda's cabin. " 

Harry and Kate Loudon were well-educated 
children, and, in many respects, knew more than 
most girls and boys who were older than they. 
Harry had been taught by his father to ride and to 
swim and to shoot as carefully as his school-teacher 
had taught him to spell and to parse. And he 
was not only taught to be skillful in these out-door 
pursuits, but to be prudent, and kind-hearted. 
When he went gunning, he shot birds and game 
that were fit for the table, and when he rode, he 
remembered that his horse had feelings as well as 
himself. Being a boy of good natural impulses, he 
might have found out these things for himself; but, 
for fear that he might be too long about it, his 
father carefully taught him that it was possible to 
shoot and to hunt and to ride without being either 
careless or cruel. It must not be supposed that 
Harry was so extremely particular that there was 
no fun in him, for he had discovered that there is 
just as much fun in doing things right as in doing 
them wrong ; and as there was not a boy in all the 
country round about who could ride, or swim, or 
shoot so well as Harry, so there was none who had 
a more generally jolly time than he. 

His sister Kate was a sharp, bright, intelligent 
girl, rather inclined to be wild when opportunity 
offered; but very affectionate, and always as ready 
for out-door sports as any boy. She could not shoot 
— at least, she never tried — and she did not ride 
much on horseback, but she enjoyed fishing, and 
rambles through the woods were to her a constant 
delight. When anything was to be done, espe- 
cially if it was anything novel, Kate was always 
ready to help. If anybody had a plan on hand, it 
was very hard to keep her finger out of it ; and if 
there were calculations to be made, it was all the 
better. Kate had a fine head for mathematics, 



>8 7 3-] 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



2 5 



and, on the whole, she rather preferred a slate and 
pencil to needles and spool-cotton. 

As to Aunt Matilda, there could be no doubt 
about her case being a pretty hard one. She was 
quite old and decrepit when the war set her free, 
and, at the time of our story, she was still older and 
stiffen Her former master had gone to the North 
to live, and as she had no family to support her, 
the poor old woman was compelled to depend upon 
the charity of her neighbors. For a time she man- 
aged to get along tolerably well, but it was soon found 
that she would suffer if she depended upon occa- 
sional charity, especially after she became unable 
to go after food or help. 'Mr. and Mrs. Loudon 



Chapter II. 

THE ADOPTION. 

When the children reached Aunt Matilda's cab- 
in, the) - found the old woman seated by a verv 
small fire, which was burning in one corner of the 
hearth. 

"Are you cold. Aunt Matilda?" asked Kate. 

"Lor' bless you, no, honey! But you sec there 
wasn't hardly any coals left, and I was tryin' to 
keep the fire alive till somebody would come along 
and gather me up some wood." 

"Then you were going to cook your breakfast. I 
suppose," said Harry. 




AUNT MATILDA AND HER GL'AKDIAN'S 



were very willing to give her what they could, but 
they had several poor people entirely dependent 
upon them, and they found it impossible to add to 
the number of their pensioners. So it was finally 
determined among the neighbors that Aunt Ma- 
tilda would have to go to the Almshouse, which 
place was provided for just such poor persons as 
i she. Neither Harry nor Kate knew much about the 
Almshouse, but they thought it must be some sort 
of a horrible place ; and, at any rate, it was too 
hard that Aunt Matilda should have to leave her 
old home where she had spent so many, many years. 
And they did not intend she should do it. 



"Yes, child, if somebody 'ud come along and 
fetch me something to eat." 

"Haven't you anything at all in the house?" 
asked Kate. 

" Not a pinch o' meal, nor nothin' else," said the 
old woman; "but I 'spected somebody 'ud be 
along." 

"Did you know, Aunt Matilda," said Harry, 
"that they are going to send you to the Alms- 
house?" 

"Yes; I heerd 'em talk about it." said Aunt 
Matilda, shaking her head; "but the Almshouse 
ain't no place for me." 



26 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



[November, 



"That's so!" said Kate, quickly. "And you're 
not going there, either ! " 

"No," said Harry;" "Kate and I intend to take 
care of you for the rest of your life." 

"Lor', children, you can't doit!" said the old 
woman, looking in astonishment from one to the other 
of these youngsters who proposed to adopt her. 

"Yes; but we can," said Harry. "Just you wait 
and see." 

"It '11 take a good deal o' money," said the old 
woman, who did not seem to be altogether satisfied 
with the prospects held out before her. " More'n 
you all will ever be able to git." 

"How much money would be enough for you 
to live on, Aunt Matilda?" asked Harry. 

"Dun no. Takes a heap o' money to keep a 
person." 

"Well, now," said Kate, "let's see exactly how 
much it will take. Have you a pencil, Harry? I 
have a piece of paper in my pocket, I think. Yes; 
here it is. Now, let's set down everything, and see 
what it comes to." 

So saying, she sat down on a low stool with her 
paper on her knees, and her pencil in her hand. 
"What shall we begin with?" said she. 

"We'll begin with corn-meal," said Harry. 
"How much corn-meal do you eat in a week, 
Aunt Matilda?" 

"Dun no," said she, "spect about a couple o' 
pecks." 

"Oh, Aunt Matilda!" cried Kate, "our whole 
family wouldn't eat two pecks in a week." 

"Well, then, a half-peck," said she — '"pends a 
good deal on how many is living in a house." 

"Yes; but we only mean this for you, Aunt Ma- 
tilda. We don't mean it for anybody else." 

"Well, then, I reckon a quarter of a peck would 
do, for jest me." 

"We will allow you a peck," said Harry, "and 
that will be twenty-five cents a week. Set that 
down, Kate." 

"All right," said Kate. And she set down at 
the top of the paper, "Meal, 25 cents." 

The children proceeded in this way to calculate 
how much bacon, molasses, coffee and sugar, would 
suffice for Aunt Matilda's support; and they found 
that the cost, per week, at the rates of the country 
stores, with which they were both familiar, would 
be seventy-seven and three-quarter cents. 

"Is there anything else, Aunt Matilda?" asked 
Kate. 

"Nuffin I can think on," said Aunt Matilda, 
'"cept milk." 

"Oh, I can get that for nothing," said Kate. "I 
will bring it to you from home, and I will bring 
you some butter too, when I can get it." 

"And I'll pick up wood for you," said Harry. " I 



can gather enough in the woods in a couple of 
hours to last you for a week." 

"Lor' bless you, chil'len," said Aunt Matilda, 
"I hope you'll be able to do all dat." 

Harry stood quiet a few minutes reflecting. 

"How much would seventy-seven and three- 
quarter cents a week amount to in a year, Kate," 
said he. 

. Kate rapidly worked out the problem, and an- 
swered: "Forty dollars and forty-three cents." 

"Lor' ! but that's a heap o' money ! " said Aunt 
Matilda. ' ' That's more'n I spect to have all the 
rest of my life. " 

"How old are you, Aunt Matilda?" said Harry. 

"I spect about fifty," said the old woman. 

"Oh, Aunt Matilda!" cried Harry, "you're 
certainly more than fifty. When I was a very little 
fellow, I remember that you were very old — at 
least, sixty or seventy." 

"Well, then, I spects I 'se about ninety," said 
Aunt Matilda. 

"But you can't be ninety ! " said Kate. "The 
Bible says that seventy years is the common length 
of a person's life." 

"Them was Jews," said Aunt Matilda. "It 
did n't mean no cull'd people. Cull'd people live 
longer than that. But p'raps a cull'd Jew would n't 
live very long." 

"Well," said Harry, "it makes no difference how 
old you arc. We 're going to take care of you for 
the rest of your life." 

Kate was again busy with her paper. 

"In five years, Harry," she said, " it will be two 
hundred and two dollars and fifteen cents." 

" Lor' ! " cried Aunt Matilda, " you chill'en will 
nebber git dat." 

"But we don't have to get it all at once, Aunt 
Matilda," said Harry, laughing, "and you needn't 
be afraid that we can't do it. Come, Kate, it's time 
for us to be off." 

And then the conference broke up. The ques- 
tion of Aunt Matilda's future support was settled. 
They had forgotten clothes, to be sure, but it is 
very difficult to remember everything. 

Chapter III. 

COMMENCING BUSINESS. 

When they reached home Harry and Kate put 
together what little money they had, and found 
that they could buy food enough to last Aunt Ma- 
tilda for several days. This Harry procured and 
carried down to the old woman that day. He also 
gathered and piled up inside of her cabin, a good 
supply of wood. Fortunately, there was a spring 
very near her door, so that she could get water 
without much trouble. 



i873-] 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



2 7 



Harry and Kate determined that they would 
commence business in earnest the next morning, 
and, as this was not the season for game, they de- 
termined to go to work to gather sumac leaves. 

Most of us are familiar with the sumac bush, 
which grows nearly all over the United States. Of 
course we do not mean the poisonous swamp-sumac, 
but that which grows along the fences and on the 
edges of the woods. Of late years the leaves of this 
bush have been greatly in demand for tanning pur- 
poses, and, in some states, especially in Virginia, 
sumac gathering has become a very important 
branch of industry, particularly with the negroes; 
many of whom, during the sumac season, prefer 
gathering these leaves to doing any other kind of 
work. The sumac bush is quite low, and the leaves 
are easily stripped off. They are then carefully 
dried, and packed in bagSj and carried to the near- 
est place of sale, generally a country store. 

The next morning, Harry and Kate made pre- 
parations for a regular expedition. They were to 
take their dinner, and stay all day. Kate was en- 
raptured — even more so, perhaps, than Harry. 
Each of them had a large bag, and Harry carried 
his gun, for who could tell what they might meet 
with ? A mink, perhaps, or a fox, or even a beaver ! 
They had a long walk, but it was through the 
woods, and there was always something to see in 
the woods. In a couple of hours, for they stopped 
very often, they reached a little valley, through which 
ran Crooked Creek. And on the banks of Crooked 
Creek were plenty of sumac bushes. This place 
was at some distance from any settlement, and 
apparently had not been visited by sumac gath- 
erers. 

''Hurra! " cried Kate, "here is enough to fill a 
thousand bags ! " 

Harry leaned his gun against a tree, and hung 
up his shot and powder flasks, and they both went 
to work gathering sumac. There was plenty of it, 
but Kate soon found that what they saw would not 
fill a thousand bags. There were a good many 
bushes, but they were small; and, when all the 
leaves were stripped off one, and squeezed into a 
bag, they did not make a very great show. How- 
ever, they did very well, and, for an hour or so, 
they worked on merrily. Then they had dinner. 
Harry built a fire. He easily found dry branches, 
and he had brought matches and paper with him. 
At a little distance under a great pine tree, Kate 
selected a level place, and cleared away the dead 
leaves, and the twigs, leaving a smooth table of dry 
and fragrant pine needles. On this she spread the 
cloth, which was a napkin. Then she took from 
the little basket she had brought with her a cake of 
corn-meal, several thick and well buttered slices of 
wheat bread, some hard boiled eggs, a little paper 



of pepper and salt, a piece of cheese, and some 
fried chicken. When this was spread out (and it 
would not all go on the cloth) Harry came, and 
looked at the repast. 

"What is there to cook?" said he. 

Kate glanced over her table, with a perplexed 
look upon her countenance, and said: "I don't be- 
lieve there is anything to cook." 

"But we ought to cook something," said Harry. 
"Here is a splendid fire. What's the good of 
camping out if you don't cook things?" 

"But everything is cooked," said Kate. 

"So it seems," said Harry, in a somewhat dis- 
couraged tone. Had he built that beautiful fire for 
nothing? "We ought to have brought along some- 
thing raw," said he. " It is ridiculous eating a cold 
dinner with a splendid fire like that." 

"We might catch some fish," said Kate; "we 
should have to cook them." 

"Yes," said Harry, "but I brought no lines." 

So, as there was nothing else to be done, they 
ate their dinner cold, and when they had finished, 
Kate cleared off the table by giving the napkin a 
flirt, and they were ready for work again. But first 
they went to look for a spring, where they could get 
a drink. In about half an hour they found a spring, 
and some wild plums, and some blackberries, and 
a grape vine (which would surely be full of grapes 
in the Fall, and was therefore a vine to be remem- 
bered), and a stone, which Kate was quite certain 
was an Indian arrow-head, and some tracks in the 
white sand, which must have been made by some 
animal or other, although neither of them was 
able to determine exactly what animal. 

When they returned to the pine tree Kate took 
up her bag. Harry followed her example, but 
somewhat slowly, as if he were thinking of some- 
thing else. 

"I tell you, Harry," said Kate, "suppose you 
take your gun and go along the creek and see what 
that was that made the tracks. If it was anything 
with fur on it, it would come to more than the 
sumac; I will stay here, and go on filling my 
bag." 

"Well," said Harry, after a moment's hesitation, 
" I might go a little way up the creek. I need n't be 
gone long. I would certainly like to find that 
creature, if I can." 

"All right," said Kate, "I think you '11 find it." 

So Harry loaded his gun, and hurried off to find 
the tracks of the mysterious, and probably fur- 
covered animal. 

Kate worked away cheerfully, singing a little 
song, and filling her bag with the sumac leaves. It 
was now much warmer, and she began to find that 
sumac picking, all alone, was not very interesting, 
and she hoped that Harry would soon find his ani- 



28 



ANNA'S DOLL. 



(November, 



mal, whatever it was. Then, after picking a little 
longer, she thought she would sit down, and rest 
awhile. So she dragged her bag to the pine tree, 
and sat down, leaning her back against the tall 
trunk. She took her bag of sumac in her arms, 
and lifted it up, trying to estimate its weight. 

"There must be ten pounds here!" she said. 
"No — it don't feel vtry heavy, but then there are 
so many of the leaves. It ought to weigh fifteen 
pounds. And they will be a cent a pound, if we take 
pay in trade, and three-quarters of a cent if we want 
cash. But, of course, we will take things in trade." 

And then she put down the bag, and began to 
calculate. 

"Fifteen pounds, fifteen cents, and at seventy- 
seven and three-quarter cents per week that would 
support Aunt Matilda nearly a day and a half; and 
then, if Harry has as much more, that will keep 
her almost three days ; and if we pick for two hours 
longer, when Harry comes back, we may get ten 
pounds more, apiece, which will make it pretty 
heavy ; but then we won't have to come again for 
nearly five days ; and if Harry shoots an otter, I 
reckon he can get a dollar for the skin, — or a pair 
of gloves of it — kid gloves, and my pink dress — and 
We '11 go in the carriage — two horses — four horses — 
a prince with a, feather — some butterflies — " and 
Kate was asleep. 

When Kate awoke, she saw by the sun that she 
had been asleep for several hours. She sprang to 
her feet. " Where is Harry ?" she cried. But no- 



body answered. Then she was frightened, for he 
might be lost. But soon she reflected that that 
was very ridiculous, for neither of them could be 
lost in that neighborhood, which they knew so well. 
Then she sat down and waited, quite anxiously, it 
must be admitted. But Harry did not come, and 
the sun sank lower. Presently she rose with an air 
of determination. 

■" I can't wait any longer," she said, " or it will be 
dark before I get home. Harrj' has followed that 
thing up the creek ever so far, and there is no 
knowing when he will get back, and it won't do for me 
to stay here. I '11 go home, and leave a note for him. " 

She put her hand in her pocket, and there was 
Harry's pencil, which she had borrowed in the 
morning, and forgot to return, and also the piece 
of paper, on which she had made her calculation 
of the cost of Aunt Matilda's board. The back of 
this would do very well for a note. So she wrote on it : 

/ am going home, for it is getting late. I shall 
go back by the same 7vad we came. Your sumac 
bag is in the bushes between the tree and the creek. 
Bring this piece of paper with you, as it has Aunt 
Matilda's expenses on the outside. 

Kate. 

This note she pinned up against the pine tree, 
where Harry could not fail to see it. Then she 
hid her brother's sumac bag in the bushes, and, 
shouldering her own bag, which, by-the-way, did 
not weigh so many pounds as she thought it did, 
set out for home. 

(To be Continued.) 



ANNA'S DOLL. 



By Lucretia P. Hale. 



ANNA'S doll was thought a very remarkable one 
"by all of the family. It had now reached its third 
head, which could be washed in front, and could 
he curled behind, and, happily, was very strong. 

For Anna, though she was very fond of her 
doll, whose name was Elsie, did often forget to take 
care of her. I am sorry to say she sometimes 
left her under the rockers of the chair, which is not 
a safe thing for a doll, or on the sofa in the parlor. 
And the way her first head was broken was, that 
somebody stepped on it, because Anna had dropped 
it in the front entry, one day, when she was hurry- 
ing off for school. 

Anna had two older sisters and two very kind 
aunts, and that is the way her doll came to have so 
many nice things. Whenever they went away, they 
always brought home something pretty for Elsie. 
She was wearing now a pretty new hat, and a 



little parasol with fringe, that one of the aunts 
brought home from Paris. 

Anna had a brother Jim, and it was hard to tell 
whether he was more of a help to her, or a plague, 
about her doll. On rainy days, when he had noth- 
ing better to do, he would make doll's chairs and 
tables for Anna's baby house. The legs were not 
very strong, and had a way of wobbling, but Anna 
was very grateful for them, and they made her for- 
get that it was owing to Jim that Elsie had lost her 
second head. 

This was a waxen head, and it was a very lovely 
one — there were light, golden curls, and you could 
move the head one way or another. But one 
winter's day Jim came in, and said he knew Elsie 
must be very cold, and advised Anna to put her in 
front of the crackling wood fire, to sit in her easy- 
chair and warm her feet. This might have done 



1873-1 



AN INDIAN MOTHER. 



2 9 



for a little while, but Anna left her there too long, 
and when she came back, all Elsie's sweet expres- 
sion had melted away ! 

Jim was really very sorry, and he offered some 
of his next month's allowance to buy a new head 
for the doll, but one of the aunts had just come 
home with a new head, which she had bought, 
thinking Elsie might be in need of one, and this 
was number three. Anna began to think it was 
the most beautiful of all, though she loved her 
dear Elsie so much, she said she would not care if 
she had no head. 

Jim then said he would write a book for the doll, 
a book that should teach her never to sit too near 
the fire, or to run into danger. The idea pleased 
Anna very much. This is the book : 

ABOUT DOLLS-. 

BY j. J. 

Some dolls' heads are made of wood ; these are 
called wooden dolls. Wood comes from trees, which 
are found in the country. Trees have leaves also ; 
they grow up, but dolls do not grow. Some trees are 
pine, some apple, some pine-apple, and some mur- 
hoggany, a hard word to spell. These heads are very 
hard, and you can pound them without hurting. 

Some dolls' heads are made of wax, and are called 



wax-dolls. The wax comes from a little animal called 
the bee, that has' wings. Sometimes it is called 
the busy bee, because it buzzes. The bee does not 
make the dolls, but the wax. It goes in a straight 
line to a flower, and pokes the honey out with its 
sting. Then you feel glad you are not the flower, 
because the sting hurts — it does — that is the way it 
makes the wax. But it is not good to put these 
dolls in the sun or over a furnace. 

Some dolls are made all over of India rubber, and 
you can fling them about anyhow. They grow on 
a tree, the India rubber does, in India, where they 
make India rubber boots. It is a good kind to have, 
because you can throw it about like a ball. But then 
the face is painted, and may rub off — some noses do. 

Then there's China dolls, made of what tea sets 
are ; but they don't come from the China where 
they make the fire-works, though they do make 
the tea. These might smash, if pounded with a 
hammer. There's another kind I don't know 
about, that Elsie's made of. It don't matter, any 
way. My aunt helped me about the spelling, ex- 
cept murhoggany — that I knew. I shall write 
another volume, telling more about trees and bees, 
and why dolls should take care of themselves. 

This is enough for once. 



AN INDIAN MOTHER. 



There is not much to be said about the beauty 
of Indians — generally speaking. Occasionally we 




hear of a pretty Indian girl but we seldom see her 
or her portrait. Fancy-pictures of Indians are 
common enough, but we have had engraved a por- 
trait of a real Indian mother — a Piute squaw — and 
her two children. The baby or papoose is wrapped 
up tight in a sort of portable cradle, made of cloth 
or bark stretched over a frame made of sapling's, 
with a board back to it. In this cradle or case the 
baby is hung up on a branch to sleep, or swung 
about, or tossed over its mother's shoulder, or stood 
up in a corner. 

The Piute Indians are rather poor creatures. 
They hang around the Pacific Railroad stations 
and beg for money, or clothes, or any thing, except 
soap, that they think they can get. They are always 
dirty and have a sullen look. They live in wigwams 
covered with sail-cloth, or bark, or calico, whichever 
happens to be the most convenient. But these In- 
dian children may grow up to be respectable and 
industrious citizens, for although many of the Indian 
tribes of the West are lazy and thriftless, and some 
hostile and treacherous, there are Indians upon 
whom white missionaries have exerted such a good 
influence that they are industrious and thrifty, cul- 
tivating the soil, supporting schools, and even pub- 
lishing newspapers. 



3° 



YA-SEK. 



[November, 



m*t* 



By Mary G. Wingate. 



This story is about a little Chinese boy, and his 
name you see written at the head of it ; only, there 
it is put in characters large enough for a great 
Mandarin, quite too large for a little orphan boy in 
an unknown family, who, according to Chinese 
ideas, ought humbly to write his name in very 
small letters, so : SUpI*-. But at the time of our story, 
little Ya-Sek, for in the district where he lives, the 
name is so pronounced, was only two years old, 
and was not called feSiS**- , if, indeed, he had any name 
at all. He probably was known as Number Two, for 
he had a brother older than himself, and among 
poor people in China, numbers are very commonly 
used for names, both for girls and boys. 

Number Two's father and mother lived up in the 
country, at a distance from the sea-side, near which 
lived his grandmother, the mother's mother, and 
her two sons, his uncles, A-Muc and A-Seng. 

The grandmother was the funniest looking old 
lady that could possibly be. She had very little 
flesh, and it seemed as if there could hardly be 
anything so substantial as bones about her ; for she 
looked as though she might be carried away by the 
first puff of wind. Then, what made her seem 
stranger yet, was a great pair of spectacles which 
she wore, with glasses in them as round, and al- 
most as large, as watch crystals. She and her 
younger son, A-Muc, were in the "pig business," 
that is, they bought pigs, and, after fattening them, 
sold them. 

Besides A-Muc, a little girl lived with her, a 
sweet-tempered little girl, with a face as brown as 
the sun could burn it. Though I think she could 
not have been more than twelve years old, she used 
to work very hard indeed. She would carry, for a 
long distance, two very large buckets filled with 
rice-water and other food for pigs ; these she would 
hang on the ends of a pole put over her shoulder. 
And the reason for her doing all this was, that she 
was engaged to be married to A-Muc, though ac- 
cording to Chinese custom, A-Muc never looked at 
her nor spoke to her. Their fathers and mothers 
had managed it all when the little girl was still 



younger and smaller, and now she lived part of the 
time with her own mother, and part of the time 
with A-Muc's mother. 

A-Seng lived in another house. He was servant 
in a foreigner's kitchen. He had been taught from 
the Bible by one of the missionaries, and seemed to 
be truly a very good man. He ate at a table with 
his wife, which was an almost unheard-of thing. 

A-Seng's only child, a little girl, had died when 
she was a month old. She was lame in her feet. 
Her parents were going to throw her little body in- 
to the river, but, after the" missionary had talked 
with them about it, they concluded to make her a 
grave on the hillside. All the other Chinese 
laughed at the idea of having a coffin for a baby a ' 
month old. They did not suppose that it could 
have any soul. Only a month old, and a girl ! If 
it had been a boy, a year old, that would have 
been very different ! 

A-Seng had no son, and no man in China is 
really happy without a son ; if he has none of his 
own, sometimes one of his friends will give him one ; 
if not, he can try to buy one ! 

One day, sorrowful news came down from the 
country. Little Number Two's father and mother 
were dead, and he was to be sold. 

A-Seng started, at once, in a boat, to go and in- 
quire into the matter. Alas, it was all too true ! 
Number Two's parents were both dead, and his 
grandfather had said, "There is not now rice 
enough for so many mouths ; the little boy Number 
One, must grow up into his father's place, but we 
must part with Number Two." 

A-Seng did not like to have Number Two go out 
of the family ; so he asked the relations, "For how 
much will you sell him to me, to be my own son ?" 
and they said, " Fifteen dollars." 

Now, fifteen dollars was a large sum to A-Seng, 
who had his wife to support, and all his own food 
and clothes to buy out of six dollars a month; but it 
was for his sister's little boy ; so he raised the money 
and took a written paper from the father's family, 
saying that they gave up all claim to the child. 



■ 873-J 



WILLY BY THE BROOK. 



31 



Then A-Seng came home in the boat, joyfully 
■bringing Number Two with him. 

"I mean to give him a Bible name," saidA-Seng. 

"Then you ought to call him Joseph," said 
one of his friends, "because he was sold by his 
brethren." 

This idea pleased A-Seng, and, from that time, 
little Number Two has been called Ya-Sek, which, 
in his district, is the Chinese for Joseph. 

Ya-Sek is now about five years old, and he has a 
happy home with his father-uncle. 

For a wonder, he is quite clean, and his eyes are 
very bright, and, considering they are Chinese eyes, 
ithey are very large and round, and he is as chubby 
as plenty of rice to eat can make him. 

In summer, he does not wear many clothes, but 
you should see him in winter, when he is dressed in 
his best. Then his plump, little feet are encased 



in shoes which look very tidy, though they cost 
little more than a dime, and he wears a blue jacket 
and trousers, and a little cloth cap, wrought with 
gay silks. This cap has two embroidered cloth 
butterflies, looking, for all the world, like pen- 
wipers, sewed on in front, and at the back of his 
head, hanging down from under the cap, is the 
little queue of hair, about a quarter of a yard long, 
with a bunch of scarlet silk braided in the end 
of it. 

If he were told to speak to you, he would clasp 
his hands together in the Chinese style, and, mak- 
ing you a bow, would repeat the salutation of the 
Christians, "Peace!" 

And this is the story of the little Chinese boy, 
Ya-Sek, who is too young yet to write his name; 
but I doubt if many of you are old enough to 
want to write it often. 



WILLY BY THE BROOK. 

[see FRONTISPIECE. J 

WlLLY lay by the dimpling brook 
Where the sun had lain before ; 

And, strange to say, when its place he took 
The spot just brightened the more. 

The birds were singing in the blue 

A song that was like a hymn ; 
While the baby ducklings, two by two. 

Strayed into the water to swim. 

'Heigho!" sighed Willy, "I cannot fly, 

Nor even so much as float ; 
And as for singing like robins, why 
I never could raise a note. 

"But I can play on my pipe," said he ; 
And soon the music came — 
So clear and sweet, so blithesome free 
That it put the birds to shame. 

The baby ducklings softly splashed, 

The robins yet harder tried, 
The sprinkled grass in sunlight flashed 

As it nodded by Willy's side. 

And, before he knew, he was floating free 
On a sparkling river of thought ; 

While the birds in the air came down to see 
What wonder the pipe had wrought. 

And still the music softly rose. 

Still Willy was floating free — 
And the little ducks with their funny toes, 

Were happy as happy could be. 



32 



MAJOR. 



("November 




i8?3-. 



FOR LITTLE FOLKS. 



33 



FOR LITTLE FOLKS. 

I am Major. Come smooth my head and pull 
my ears. I won't bite. But don't step on my tail 
or strike my black nose. If you do, I shall bark. 

Once a boy got on my back. Then he held 
fast by my ears, and said "Get up! "and away we 
went. It was such fun that he said "Ha! ha! 
ha!" and I said "Bow, wow- wow!" 



" You can't guess 



r 




what I have in my bas- 
ket," said Fred. "Oh, ^ 
do tell us," cried Fan, 
"and I will show you 
my nice ball." 

Fred took the ball, 
and May gave him a w 
hug, which made his 
hat fall off. Then they took a peep, and what do 
you think they saw? Why, two little white 
mice, with pink ears. 



Dear Jesus 

Please to keep 
Little Elsie 

In her sleep. 
Bless Papa, 

Mamma and Sue, 

Vol. I.— 3. 




Bless my doll 

And' Kitty too. 
If we're good 

As we can be, 
We shall live 

In Heaven with Thee. 



34 



A VISIT TO 



BEE-HIVE. 



[November. 




A COMMON 
MISTAKE. 

The wisest thing 

For any man, 
Is to get from others 

All he can. 
The meanest thing 

A man can do, 
Is to get his gains 

From me or you. 



WHICH IS CAUGHT? 

Which is caught? Mousie 
or Pussie ! Ha ! Ha ! Not 
Mousie ; for Puss cannot move 
without setting him free. It 
is good to know that the little 
fellow is more frightened than 
hurt ; for cats' rocking-chairs 
are very light. Keep up your 
courage, Mousie, there's a 
chance for you yet ! 



WHICH IS CAUGHT : 



A VISIT TO A BEE-HIVE, 
Described by the Fairy Flyaway. 



"How doth the little busy bee 
Improve each shining hour, 
And gather honey day by day, 
From every opening flower?" 

"How doth she. indeed?" I said to myself, as 
I awoke one bright morning. 

The thought was suggested by a noisy bee, who 
waked me by trying to enter my lily-bell, and 
I resolved that I would look into the matter. So I 
flew out of my lily, and to the nearest hive, to 
make inquiries. 

Bees are high-spirited and quick-tempered per- 
sons, I know, but a fairy can make her way any- 
where. 

The hive was a neat building, pleasantly situated 
in an orchard. On one side a clover-field, full of 
perfume; and on the other a gay flower-garden. 



At the door of the hive I was met by a number 
of sentinels, one of whom addressed me rather 
sharply, with "Who goes there?" 

"A friend," I replied, "who wishes to learn 
something of the ways of bees, and how they make 
honey." 

"Your passport," said she. 

"I never thought of such a thing," said I. 

"Do you intend to go into the honey business 
yourself?" asked she. 

"By no means," I replied; "I am the fairy Fly- 
away, and only want information and amusement." 

" I will send a messenger to our Queen," said the 
sentinel. 

The messenger soon returned with the Queen's 
permission to go entirely through the hive, — 
escorted by one of her own body-guard, — except- 
ing into the royal apartments. 






iS73. 



A VISIT TO A BEE-HIVE. 



35 



I then entered the doorway, where I was greeted 
by my guide, who gave me her name, — Deborah, — 
and ushered me, with a grand flourish of her wings, 
into a wide gallery or passage. 

In the middle of the hive I saw a long string, of 
bees, reaching from the roof to the floor, each 
bee clinging to her neighbor, and remaining mo- 
tionless, while other bees ran up and down, as 
though upon a ladder. 

"What is that?" I asked my guide. 

"A bee-rope," she replied, "a short cut from 
the top to the bottom of the hive." 

I remarked that I had thought it might be some 
kind of dance. 

"No," said she. "In the winter when there is 
no work to be done, we sometimes dance in the 
sunshine before the hive, but never at any other 
time. We are too busy." 

This seemed to me rather sad, but I did not 
say so. 

In the gallery we saw bees hurrying about in all 
directions, too busy to notice us, and never disturb- 
ing or interfering with each other, in the least. 

"These are our Workers," said Deborah. 

"About how many of them are there?" I in- 
quired. 

"There are twenty-thousand of us, all told," she 
replied, " one Queen, or Mother-bee, blessings on 
her Majesty ! some hundreds of Drones, and the 
rest Workers." 

"They must be tired enough if they always work 
as fast as these do," I said. 

"No," replied Deborah, "they like it. A true 
Worker-bee is never content to be idle. Would 
you like to see the Nurseries ? " continued she. 

"Anything you please to show me," I replied. 

We then turned through a side-gallery into a 
quiet corner of the hive, where we found curious 
cradles or cells, of different sizes, made of the purest 
white wax. 

"Here the eggs are laid by our Queen," said 
Deborah, "generally about two hundred a day, 
but often many more." 

"Then your Queen must be busy, as well as the 
rest of you," I said. 

"No one works harder," replied my guide. 

I thought of our beautiful Queen, with her delicate 
wings, and felt that a bee-hive was not much like 
Fairy-land. 

"And will these eggs ever turn into real bees?" 
I asked. 

"O yes," said my guide, "in three or four days 
they hatch into worms." 

"Something like caterpillars and butterflies?" 
I asked. 

"A little," she replied, "but in this case the 
young worms are worth taking care of, as bees are 



valuable and industrious persons, while butterflies 
are idle and useless." 

"You are mistaken there," I said, "they are use- 
ful to us fairies. In our long flights we could not 
do without them." 

" Ah," said she, " I never heard of it before." 

"When the eggs turn into grubs or worms," 
continued she, "the Workers find plenty to do to 
take care of them. Each little worm must be care- 
fully fed for four or five days, with water, and bread 
and honey." 

" What kind of bread?" I asked. 

"O, bee-bread." she replied, "nothing else 
would suit them. The cells are then sealed up, 
that is, a nice lid or cover is put upon each one, 
and the little worms must take care of themselves 
for a while. Every worm is expected to line its cell 
neatly, with a silken webbing, and then roll itself up 
in a cocoon. And they always do it. I never knew 
one fail. This takes a day or two and then they 
must stay in the cocoon for a time. Ah ! we are 
just in time to see the cells closed." 

And, to be sure, there were the attendants seal- 
ing up the cells, a small, white worm in each. 

I must confess it made me shudder to look at 
them, for I never did like worms ! It is so dreadful 
to meet one in the folds of a rose. 

But I fancied the little worms seemed uneasy at 
the idea of being shut up, and so I told my friend. 

" Ah well ! " said she, "It is the only way. We 
all go through with it. Before many days they 
will come out perfect bees. Wings and legs all 
right." 

' ' And must they go to work as soon as they are 
out," I asked, "and not dance once?" 

"No," replied Deborah. "They are not strong 
enough to fly until they have been fed one or two 
days.' Then they begin to work in good earnest." 

I observed that' the cells were of different sizes, 
and inquired the reason. 

"The largest and handsomest cells," replied 
Deborah, "are for the young Queen-bees or Prin- 
cesses. The next in size for- the Drones, and the 
smallest for the Workers." 

" Can the cells be used more than once," I asked, 
"or arc they done with, like last-year's birds'- 
nests?" 

"The royal cells are all destroyed when they 
have been once used," she answered, "but the 
others are cleansed and the silken webbing is left to 
strengthen them, and they are then better than 
ever." 

"How long does it take to turn from eggs into 
bees?" I inquired. 

"Sixteen days for the Queen-bee to become a 
perfect insect. Twenty-four days for the Drones, 
and twenty-one for the Workers," she replied. 



36 



A VISIT T O 



B E E - H I V E . 



[November, 



"And have these attendants nothing to do but 
to feed the little ones?" I asked. 

"O yes," said Deborah, "they attend the Queen, 
do the fighting, prepare the wax, make the combs 
or cells, collect the honey by day, and store it by 
night, and keep the hive in order. The Drones 
lead an idle life. They will die, rather than work. 
They will not even feed themselves if they can find 
any one else to do it. And, to tell the truth, like 
all idlers in a busy community, they are such a 
bother, that about once a year we have to kill them 
off." 

"My dear Deborah!" I exclaimed, in horror, 
" you can't mean it ! " 

"Yes. It is the custom. They don't seem to 
mind it. But let us look now at the store-rooms," 
said she, hastily changing the subject, as well she 
might. 

In the store-rooms we saw rows upon rows of 
cells, fitted one upon another, and every one filled 
with clear honey, and securely sealed. 

"This is our winter store," said my guide; "pure 
honey, made from the white clover, and put up 
in the combs by the Workers." 

"How do they make the honey?" I asked. 

"They gather it," she replied. "We send out 
thousands of bees every morning, to all the gardens 
and fields around. Mignonette makes good honey, 
and so do apple-blossoms. We usually make from 
two to six pounds in a day. The bees often fly as 
far as two miles from the hive, and they come back 
loaded with honey and pollen. Each Worker has 
a tongue or proboscis with which she licks or 
brushes up the honey, and puts it into her honey- 
bag. 

"Stop a moment," said she to a Worker who 
was hurrying by. "You will observe, my dear, 
that the hinder legs have something like baskets, 
on the side, in which the pollen or bee-bread is 
carried." 

"I see it," said I, "I have often watched' the 
bees coming out of flowers, covered with yellow 
dust." 

I then took the opportunity to mention to her 
that I lived in a lily-bell, that I sometimes danced 
the greater part of the night, and that the bees 
were very much in the habit of waking me at an 
unreasonable hour in the morning. She said she 
would attend to it. 

"And how do the bees make wax?" I asked. 

"By a process best known to themselves," replied 
Deborah. "It is not in my line just now, and I 
am quite sure that I could not describe it to 
you. The bees say they cannot tell how they 
do it, but they wish to keep the secret among 
themselves. The sides of these cells are the one- 
hundred and eightieth part of an inch in thick- 



ness. So you see we must use an immense quantity 
of wax." 

"You must, indeed," I replied. "And are the 
cells always made in this same shape ? " 

"Yes," said she. "They are six-sided. The 
early bees fixed upon that as the best for strength 
and economy of space, and no change has been 
made since. However, the Bumble-bees," she 
added, with a slight expression of scorn, as though 
she had said, "the Beggars," " have a way which 
they prefer. They put it up in bags, and store it 
under-ground." 

This was no news to me. Such a thing has been 
done in Fairy-land as to "borrow" a little honey 
from the Bumble-bee, in time of scarcity. But I 
said nothing. 

"And you tell me the Workers do the fighting. 
Is there much fighting to do ? " I asked. 

"A great deal," replied Deborah. "We have 
many enemies, bother on them ! Mice, cater- 
pillars, moths, snails, wasps, robber-bees, and 
other evil-minded creatures ! " As she said this, 
she buzzed fiercely and unsheathed her sting. 

" Look here a moment," said she, " and you will 
see one of them." 

And there in a corner, guarded by a squad of 
bees, lay a wretched snail, prisoner in his own 
shell. The edge of the shell was covered with 
strong cement, which held it firmly to the floor. 

"I think we have him now, the villain!" said 
my guide. "His shell is fastened with propolis." 
"What is propolis?" I asked. 
" It is bee-glue," she replied; "resin from the 
buds of trees." 

At this moment we heard a low murmur of 
•' The Queen ! the Queen ! " and turning, we saw 
passing through the principal gallery, a magnifi- 
cent bee, larger and more stately than any of her 
subjects, though her wings were much smaller than 
theirs. The under part of her body was golden, 
the upper part dark. 

She was surrounded by her body-guard, and as 
she passed, her subjects politely backed out of her 
way, to give her room, and some offered her re- 
freshment in the form of honey. 

" What would become of us, if anything should 
happen to our beloved queen ! " exclaimed Deborah. 
" How long has she reigned?" I inquired. 
" More than two months," she replied. 
"And how much longer may she reign?" I 
asked. 

" She may outlive us all," she replied. " Queens 
live four years, and workers only from six to nine 
months. Our old Queen went away with a swarm 
to another hive. But now," she continued, "if. 
you will come back to the gallery, I will offer you 
some of our best honey." 



&n) 



"UNDER THE LIGHT-HOUSE. 



This was tempting, even to a fairy, and we are 
considered dainty; that is, the crickets and grass- 
hoppers call us so. I tasted some honey, and 
found it delicious. 

" This is not like the honey one finds in the 
flowers," I said. 

"We have our own way of purifying and pre- 
serving it," said Deborah. 

"And bee-bread. Can you tell me exactly how 
to make it ? " I asked. 

" That is not allowed," 
she replied, " though it 
would do no harm, as no 
one but a bee could ever 
make it. It is made of 
the pollen of flowers, and 
honey and water ; and 
it wants a great deal of 
kneading. But it is only 
fit for the food of young 
bees. We older ones nev- 
er eat it." 

"And do the young 
princesses eat it too ? " I 
asked. 

" Not at all," she re- 
plied. ' ' They are fed 
upon royal jelly." 




•' And what is that ? " I asked. 
" Don't ask ! " she replied. " It is the greatest 
secret of all. Off goes my head, if I tell you ! " 
" And by the way," said she, "perhaps it will be 
better to say nothing about that Drone business." 
" Perhaps it will," I replied, " for I have known 
our fairy-queen to imprison one of her subjects in 
a pea-pod a whole hour, for only pinching a gnat." 
"Ah! yes, "said she, "notour idea of discipline." 
She then escorted me 
to the door of the hive. I 
thanked her, recommend- 
ed less work and more 
dancing, invited her to 
call on me in my lily-bell, 
and took my leave, feeling 
that I had really learned 
something of the ways of 
the "little busy bee," if 
not how she makes honey. 
The next day 1 sent to my 
friend Deborah, by a but- 
terfly, the finest four- 
leaved clover I ever saw, 
knowing that to be the 
best return I could possi- 
bly make for her kind- 
ness. 



UNDER THE LIGHT-HOUSE. 



By Celia Thaxter. 

Beneath the tall, white light-house strayed the children, 

In the May-morning sweet; 
About the steep and rough grey rocks they wandered 

Wit't hesitating feet ; 
For scattered far and wide the birds were lying, 

Quiet, and cold, and dead, 
That met, while they were swiftly winging northward, 

The fierce light overhead, 
And as the frail moths in the summer evenings 

Fly to the candle's blaze, 
Rushed wildly at the splendor, finding only 

Death in those blinding rays. 
And here were bobolink, and wren, and sparrow, 

Veery, and oriole, 
And purple finch, and rosy grosbeak, swallows, 

And king-birds quaint and droll; 
Gay soldier blackbirds, wearing on their shoulders 

Red, gold-edged epaulets, 
A.nd many a homely, brown, red-breasted robin, 

Whose voice no child forgets. 



38 UNDER THE LIGHT -HOUSE. [November! 

And yellow-birds — what shapes of perfect beauty ! 

What silence after song ! 
And mingled with them, unfamiliar warblers 

That to far woods belong. 
Clothing the grey rocks with a mournful beauty 

By scores the dead forms lay, 
That, dashed against the tall tower's cruel windows, 

Dropped like the spent sea-spray. 
How many an old and sun-steeped barn, far inland, 

Should miss about its eaves 
The twitter and the gleam of these swift swallows ! 

And, swinging 'mid the leaves, 
The oriole's nest, all empty in the elm-tree, 

Would cold and silent be, 
And never more these robins make the meadows 

• Ring with their ecstasy. 
Would not the gay swamp-border miss the black-birds. 

Whistling so loud and clear ? 
Would not the bobolinks' delicious music 

Lose something of its cheer? 
"Yet," thought the wistful children, gazing landward, 
''The birds will not be missed; 
Others will take their place in field and forest, 

Others will keep their tryst ; 
And we, we only, know how death has met them, 

We wonder and we mourn 
That from their innocent and bright existence 

Thus roughly they are torn." 
And so they laid the sweet, dead shapes together, 

Smoothing each ruffled wing, 
Perplexed and sorrowful, and pondering deeply 

The meaning of this thing. 
(Too hard to fathom for the wisest nature 

Crowned with the snows of age !) 
And all the beauty of the fair May morning 

Seemed like a blotted page. 
They bore them down from the rough cliffs of granite 

To where the grass grew green, 
And laid them 'neath the soft turf, all together, 

With many a flower between ; 
And, looking up with wet eyes, saw how brightly 

Upon the summer sea 
Lay the clear sunlight, how white sails were shining, 

And small waves laughed in glee : 
And somehow, comfort grew to check their grieving, 

A sense of brooding care, 
As if, in spite of death, a loving presence 

Filled all the viewless air. 
"What should we fear?" whispered the little children, 
"There is no thing so small 
But God will care for it in earth or heaven ; 

He sees the sparrows fall !" 



1873.I 



LAW THAT COULD NOT BE BROKEN. 



39 



A LAW THAT COULD NOT BE BROKEN. 



By J. S. Stacy. 



One day, as I sat reading a book called Arnott's 
Physics or Natural Philosophy, I suddenly laughed 
aloud. 

Now, Arnott's Physics is by no means a funny 
book. I am quite sure there is not a joke in it, 
from cover to cover. So, when I laughed, my wife 
looked up in great surprise, for I may as well con- 
fess I had been reading aloud to the dear little lady 
and it had put her in anything but a lively mood. 

"What is it, Joe?" she asked, smiling in spite 
of herself when she met my broad grin. 

"This part here, about the centre of gravity and 
its always taking the lowest place," answered I, 
tapping the page with my fingers, " made me 
think of something." 

"Did it ?" she said with solemn surprise. 

As the precious girl (please don't mind my 
speaking in this way of my wife, for, the fact is, we 
have been married only a year, and she is just 
eighteen to my twenty-two), as the precious girl 
evidently did not expect an answer to her question, 
I took up the book again and read : 

By attending to the centre of gravity of the bodies 
around us on the earth, we are enabled to explain why, 
from the influence of gravity, some of them are stable, 
or firmly fixed, others tottering, others falling. * * * 
The line of a plummet hanging from the centre of 
gravity is called the line of direction of the centre, or 
that in which it tends naturally to decend to the earth. 

"You remember, Lily," said I, interrupting my- 
self, " the law we read in Gale yesterday :" 

" While the line of direction falls within the base upon 
which the body stands, the body cannot upset ; but if 
the line fall beyond the base the body will tumble." 

Then, taking a pencil and note-book from my 
pocket, I made a picture of a coach tilted by a 
great stone in such a way that a perpendicular line 
drawn from its centre of gravity fell beyond the base 
of the coach, that is, outside of the point where its 
wheels touched the ground on the tilted side, and 
she saw at a glance that the coach must upset. 

"Oh, yes, I understand it now, perfectly," she ex- 
claimed, quite pleased. 

So I read on, as Dr. Arnott proceeded to tell us 
how to find the centre of gravity of any object, and 
to explain in a very clear and delightful way the 
principle shown in rolling balls, leaning towers, un- 
safe chimneys, in the graceful positions of skaters, 
in tumbling dolls and the movements of various 
toys, when my wife said quickly : 

"Joe!" 



"No, dear," said I, listening a moment and think- 
ing that she had thought she heard the baby cry. 

" Joe !" she exclaimed again. " what were you 
laughing about ?" 

"When?" said I. 

" Why, a moment ago." 

"O," I laughed, "didn't I ever tell you, my 
dear ? It was such a capital illustration of the laws 
we have just been studying, though I didn't know 
it at the time." 

"Well?" said she. 

She drew her chair close to mine, with a comical 
look of curiosity on her face, and I began in a dra- 
matic fashion : 

" 'Tis now eleven years since a small boy, full of 
mischief by nature, but very cautious by education, 
found himself alone in the upper part of a fine city 
mansion. His mother was out. The servants 
were in the kitchen, and this small boy felt that, 
perhaps, never again would he have such a grand 
chance to be up to something, he hardly knew 
what." 

" Was it you, Joe?" 

" It was," said I. " Well, as the boys say, I cast 
about for some time, not able to settle on a plan. 
Many delightful projects entered my head, but they 
were all more or less connected with danger. There 
was the roof, as steep and as slanting as heart 
of boy could wish ; but I had been made so thor- 
oughly to understand that to tumble from it would 
be to break every bone in my body, to say noth- 
ing of being 'killed stone dead,' that I gave up my 
half-formed plan at once. Then there was the 
window. It would be fun to let myself down from 
it by tying a stout rope to the bed-post, and so 
sliding to the ground. But the rope might break, 
or I might not be able to hold on — and the wild 
thought was abandoned in a flash. Suddenly an 
idea came to me : 

"There was a beautiful porcelain vase on the 
top of father's book-case, high out of reach. What 
fun it would be if I only could manage to knock it 
down without breaking it !" 

" You little goose ! — then, not now," added Mrs. 
Joseph, hastily. 

"Goose or not, I tried it," said I. "It was 
nearly time for mother to return. There was not 
a moment to be lost, and I had to make great 
preparations. 

" The bed was made up in fine style, with its 
great ruffled pillow fixings and its silken spread 
all tucked in as if it were never to come out again. 



40 



A LAW THAT COULD NOT BE BROKEN. 



[November. 



But I hauled off the covers, and with many a tug 
and pull brought the feather bed to the floor. 
Then I dragged it to the book-case. The next 
thing was to fetch a ladder from the garret — no 
easy job for a ten-year-old. This done, it was evi- 
dent I should need some sort of a stick for poking 



ner of the boy and flag in "Excelsior" and hastily 
adjusting the ladder, I mounted to the top, and — " 
" O, Joe!" cried Mrs. Joseph, laughing. "I 
remember it ! Yes, just as well as if it were yes- 
terday. Your mother had been to our house, and 
my mother had let me go home with her. We 




the vase with. Father's umbrella with its crooked 
handle was just the thing. 

" ' Good !' said I to myself. ' Won't it be larks 
to knock down the vase and never hurt it a bit ! 
Good for you, too. Old Mr. Feather-Bed! All 
you've got to do is to catch it.' 

" With this, seizing the umbrella after the man- 



went right up stairs, and just as we opened the 
door we heard such a crash, and there were you 
and the ladder on the floor ! No. the ladder was 
on the feather-bed and you were on the floor. You 
must have pitched over backward, Joe, just as the 
ladder slipped from under you." 
"Very likely," said I. 



J873-] 



GERMAN STORY 



41 



"Well, I declare. That was a caper! What 
a funny little wisp of a boy you were ! And to 
think of our actually being married eleven years 
afterward ! But what about the vase ?" 

"Oh, that was safe enough, you may be sure. 
for the umbrella hadn't time to touch it." 

"Joe," said Mrs. Joseph, " if you had opened 
that ladder a little wider, or taken a plummet up 



with you and been careful to have the line of direc- 
tion from the centre of gravity fall within the base 
of the ladder all would have been well, wouldn't 
it. m\ — " 

Just then little Josie was heard in the next 
room screaming like a good fellow. Off ran Mrs. 
Joseph. I was left alone to ponder over the laws 
of gravitation. 



GERMAN STORY. 




$en falfdjcn s^ctj fcijcnb. 

fBon Clara injure. 

[Here is a little story wrinen by Mrs. Hance for the benefit of girls and boys who are learning to read in German. 
N'ext month we shall print a translation of it, so that all the children may know the meaning of Mr. Stephens' spirited picture. We- 
itend to give, every month, a short story in French or German, so that our readers who are studying those languages may have a 
chance to do a little translating out of school. Next month we shall have a French story.] 



ftlcin £tcc>d)cn Ijatte bie iibte SlngctuohniScit nic »or fid) 
:u fehen ; fie iticftc entweber red)td obcr KnfS. Ta fam 
e cinmal, bafj fie mil einem grofjen Stud Sudjen in bcr 
:>anb binautf auf cinen £of lief, too einige SOTaurer eine 
SJrube machtcn, tie fie bca&ftcfitigtcn mit fiatf ju fit tTcn . 
■ieSdjen rannte froMich umber, bie SSSarnungen ibrcr 5)cut« 
er batte fie longft uergeffen ; auficrbem war cS ja aud) gat 
u luftig, belt grofen -£mnb ju feben, rocldier fie umfrciftc 
nb nadj bem .rtudjen fdjnaptste. 9iber, roeb, cbe fie co 
d) scrfab, pet fie ftopf iibcr in bie ©rube. 3f>r ©efdirci 



braaite bie SIrbciter bcrbei unb fie bolten ciligft ba£ avmc 
fiinb auo bem bafilidjcn Sod). Cic6cben mupte nun langc 
Beit im fflette blcibcn unb urge Srfimcrjcn bulben, wabrenb 
braufien anbre .flinber nmntcr fpieltcn. Sa nabin fie c5 
fid) »or, nie ttneber eincn SBcg ju geben unb luo anbcr3 
bin ju btirfen. $atre fie fritber baran gebad)t, fo murbe 
fie ttner gutcn SMuttcr fcine Surge unb fid) nidit Scbmerjen 
kreitet baben. <So aber ging c3 i v r, roic bem 2>.rrolcr 
auf £>errn @tep|en«' SBilb. Skibe «*tetcn nid)t auf 
ben JBeg unb man fu'bt tta3 barau.3 cntftcbt. 



42 



WHO WROTE THE ARABIAN NIGHTS; 



[November, 



WHO WROTE THE "ARABIAN NIGHTS?' 
By Donald G. Mitchell. 



Who knows? Not Captain Mayne Reid ; though 
if he had been born a Persian, and lived long 
time enough ago, and been a Caliph with a long 
beard and a scimitar, instead of a captain in the 
Mexican war, with a Colt's revolver and a goatee, 
and had seen the cloud of dust which Ali-Baba 
saw, I think he could have made out the band of 
forty robbers under it, and the cave, and all the 
rest. 

But Mayne Reid didn't see the cloud of dust 
which covered those robbers (and which is very 
apt to cover all gangs of public robbers) and there- 
fore didn't write the "Arabian Nights." Nor did 
Mrs. Hannah More, for the book is not in her 
style; nor did the author of "Little Women;" 
and the genius in her " work," though very decided, 
isn't at all like the Genius that comes in smoke 
and flame into the wonderful story of Aladdin and 
the Lamp. 

You could never guess who wrote the Arabian 
Nights ; — for nobody knows when those stories were 
first written. It seems very odd that a book should 
be made, and no one able to tell when it was made. 
The publishers don't allow such things to happen 
now-a-days. Yet it is even so with the book we 
are talking of. Of course, it is possible to fix 
the date of the many translations of the Arabian 
Nights which have been made into the languages 
of Europe from the old Arabic manuscripts. Thus, 
it was in the year 1704 that a certain Antoine Gal- 
land, a distinguished oriental scholar of Paris, who 
had traveled in the East and who had collected 
many curious manuscripts and medals, published a 
French translation of what was called the " Thou- 
sand and One Nights." This was in the time of 
the gay court of Louis the Fourteenth ; and the 
fine ladies of the court — those of them who could 
read — all devoured the book. And the school-boys 
throughout France (though there were not many 
school-boys in those days outside of the great 
cities) all came to know the wonderful stories of 
Aladdin and of Ali-Baba. Remember that this 
was about the time when the great Duke of Marl- 
boro was winning his famous victories on the Conti- 
nent — specially that of Blenheim, about which an 
English poet, Dr. Southey, has written a quaint 
little poem, which you should read. It was in the 
lifetime, too, of Daniel De Foe, — who wrote that 
ever charming story of Robinson Crusoe some 
twelve or fourteen years later; and the first news- 
paper in America — called the Boston News Letter — 
was printed in the same year in which Antoine 



Galland published this translation of the Thousand 
and One Nights. If you should go to Paris and be 
curious to see it, you can find in the Imperial 
Library or the National Library (or whatever those 
changeable French people may call it now) the very 
manuscript of Antoine Galland. 

Some years afterward there was a new and fuller 
translation by another oriental scholar, who had suc- 
ceeded M. Galland as Professor of Arabic in the 
Royal College. Then there followed in the early 
part of this century translations into English, and 
I suppose that American boys in the days of Presi 
dent Monroe took their first taste of those gorgeous 
Arabian tales. 

But the completest of all the collections was made 
by a German scholar, Mr. Von Hammer, in the 
year 1824 — not so far back but that your fathers and 
mothers may remember little stray paragraphs in 
the papers, which made mention of how a German 
scholar had traced these old Arabian tales back to 
a very dim antiquity in India; and how he believed 
they had thence gone into Persia, where the great 
men of the stories all became Caliphs, and how they 
floated thence, by hearsay, into Arabia (which was 
a country of scribes and scholars in the days of 
Haroun al Raschid); and how they there took form in 
the old Arabic manuscripts which Antoine Galland 
had found and translated. But during the century 
that had passed since M. Galland's death, other and 
fuller Arabic copies had been found, with new tales 
added, and with other versions of the tales first told. 

But what we call the machinery of the stories was 
always much the same ; and the same Genii flashed 
out in smoke and flame, and the same scimitars went 
blazing and dealing death through all the copies of 
" The Thousand and One Nights." 

But how came that title of the Thousand and 
One Nights, which belonged, and still belongs, to 
all the European collections of these old Arabian 
stories ? I will tell you why ; and in telling you 
why, I shall give you the whole background on 
which all these various Arabian stories, wherever 
found, are arrayed. And the background is itself 
a story, and this is the way it runs : — 

Once there lived a wicked Sultan of Persia, whose 
name was Schahriar ; and he had many wives — like 
the Persian Shah who went journeying into Eng- 
land this summer past; and he thought of his wives 
as stock-owners think of their cattle — and I fear the 
present Persian Shah thinks no otherwise. 

Well, when this old Schahriar found that his 
wives were faithless and deceitful — as all wives will 



i8 7 3-: 



WHO WROTE THE ARABIAN NIGHTS.'' 



43 



be who are esteemed no more than cattle — he 
vowed that he would cut off all chance of their sin- 
ning, by making an end of them ; so it happened 
that whatever new wife he espoused one day, he 
killed upon the next. 

You will think the brides were foolish to marry 
him; but many women keep on making as foolish 
matches all the world over ; and she who marries a 
sot, or the man who promises to be a sot, is killed 
slowly, instead of being killed quickly with a bow- 
string, — as the Schahriar did his work. 

Besides, all women of the East were slaves, as 
they are mostly now, and subject to whatever orders 
the Sultan might make. 

Now, it happened that this old Schahriar had a 
vizier, or chief officer under him (who executed all 
his murderous orders), and who was horrified by 
the cruelties he had to commit. And this same 
vizier had a beautiful and accomplished daughter, 
who was even more horrified than her father ; and 
she plotted how she might stay the bloody actions 
of the Schahriar. 

She could gain no access to him, and could hope 
to win no influence over him, except by becoming 
his bride ; but if she became his bride, she would 
have but one day to live. So, at least, thought her 
sisters and her father. She, of course, found it very 
hard to win the consent of her father, the vizier to 
her plan ; but at last she succeeded, and so arranged 
matters that the Schahriar should command her to 
be his bride. 

The fatal marriage-day came, and the vizier was 
in an agony ofrgrief and alarm. The morning after 
the espousals, he waited, — in an ecstasy of fear, — the 
usual order for the slaughter of the innocent bride ; 
but to his amazement and present relief, the order 
was postponed to the following day. 

This bride, whose name was Scheherazade — 
known now to school-boys and school-girls all over 
the world — was most beguiling of speech, and a 
most charming story-teller. And on the day of her 
espousals she had commenced the narration of a 
most engrossing story to her husband the Schahriar, 
and had so artfully timed it, and measured out its 
length, that when the hour came for the sultan to 
set about his cares of office, she should be at its 
most interesting stage. The sultan had been so be- 
guiled by the witchery of her narrative, and so 
eager to learn the issue, that he put off the execu- 
tion of his murderous design, in order to hear the 
termination of the story on the following night. 

And so rich was the narration and so great was 
the art of the Princess Scheherazade, that she kept 
alive the curiosity and wonder of her husband, the 
sultan, day after day, and week after week, and 
month after month, until her fascinating stories 
had lasted for a thousand and one nights. 



If you count up these you will find they make a 
period of two years and nine months — during which 
she had beguiled the sultan and stayed the order for 
her execution. In the interval, children had been 
born to her, and she had so won upon her husband, 
that he abolished his cruel edict forever, — on condi- 
tion that from time to time she should tell over 
again those enchanting stories. And the stories 
she told on those thousand and one nights, and 
which have been recited since in every language of 
Europe, thousands and thousands of times, are the 
Arabian Nights tales. 

If this account is not true in all particulars, it is 
at least as true as the stories are. 

A good woman sacrificed herself to work a deed 
of benevolence. That story at any rate is true, 
and is being repeated over and over in lives all 
around us. 

But, after all, the question is not answered as to 
who wrote the "Arabian Nights." I doubt if it 
ever will be answered truly. Who cares, indeed ? 
I dare say that youngsters in these days of investi- 
gation committees are growing up more curious 
and inquifing than they used to be; but I know 
well I cared or thought nothing about the author- 
ship in those old school days when I caught 
my first reading of Aladdin and the Wonderful 
Lamp. 

What a night it was ! What a feast ! I think I 
could have kissed the hand that wrote it. 

A little red morocco-bound book it was, with gilt 
edges to the leaves, that I had borrowed from Tom 
Spooner, and Tom Spooner's aunt had loaned it to 
him, and she thought all the world of it, and had 
covered it in brown paper, and I mustn't soil it, or 
dog's-ear it. And I sat down with it — how well I 
remember — at a little square-legged red table in 
the north recitation-room at E — ■ — ■ school; and 
there was a black hole in the top of the table — 
where Dick Linsey, who was a military character, 
and freckled, had set off a squib of gunpowder 
(and got trounced for it) ; and the smell of the burnt 
powder lingered there, and came up gratefully into 
my nostrils, as I read about the sulphurous clouds 
rolling up round the wonderful lamp, and the Genius 
coming forth in smoke and flames ! 

What delight ! If I could only fall in with an old 
peddler with a rusty lamp, — such as Aladdin's, 
— wouldn't I rub it ! 

And with my elbows fast on the little red table, 
and my knees fast against the square legs, and the 
smell of the old squib regaling me, I thought what I 
would order the Genius to do, if I ever had a chance. 
— A week's holiday to begin with ; and the Genius 
should be requested to set the school " principal" 
down, green spectacles and all, in the thickest of 
the woods somewhere on the "mountain." Sat- 



44 



THE STORY OF TOM GIP. 



[November. 



urday afternoons should come twice a week— at the 
very least ; — turkey, with stuffing, every day except 
oyster day. I would have a case of pocket-knives 
"Rogers' superfine cutlery" — (though Kingsbury 
alwavs insisted that " Wostenholm's " were better) 
brought into my closet, and would give them out, 
cautiously, to the clever boys. I would have a sled, 
brought by the Genius, that would beat Ben Brace's 
''Reindeer." he bragged so much about, — by two 
rods, at least. I would have a cork jacket, with 
which I could swim across Snipsic Lake, where it 
was widest — twice over — and think nothing of it. 
I would have a cavern, like the salt mines in Cra- 
cow. Poland (as pictured in Parley's Geography) ; 
only instead of salt, it should all be rock-candy ; and 



I would let in clever fellows and pretty girls, and 
the homely ones, too — well, as often as every 
Wednesday. 

Ah, well-a-day ! we never come to the ownership 
of such caverns ! We never find a peddler with the 
sort of lamp that will bring any sort of riches — 
with wishing. 

But, my youngsters, there is a Genius that will 
come to any boy's command, and will work out 
amazing things for you all through boyhood, and 
all through life ; and his name is — Industry. 

And now. if your lessons are all done, and if you 
will keep in mind what I have said about the " Ara- 
bian Nights," and their history, we will sit down 
to a reading of Ali-Baba and the Forty Thieves. 



THE STORY OF TOM GIP. 



Once upon a time, 
there lived a fat boy, 
whose name was Tom 
Gip. Tom liked lunch 
better than lessons, so 
he never forgot his lunch 
and never remembered 
his lessons. Every morn- 
ing, he carried to school, 
in a big box on wheels, 
three hard-boiled eggs, 
three sticky gingerbread 
cakes, three sausages, 




three baked apples, three 
pickles, three turn-over 
pies, and three puddings, 
called huckleberry bols- 
ters. He would shut him- 
self up in such a hurry 
at intermission, that he 
always pinched his nose 
in the doftr ; and he ate 
so fast that he regularly 
choked himself. 

The boys used to write 
his last name backwards. 



BOOKS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. 



We heard a school-girl say of a " girl-graduate," 
the other day: " O she has grand times, now that 
she has left the Academy. And she doesn't spend 
her time foolishly, either. She reads all the new 
books !" 

" I don't know about that," said an old gentle- 
man. 

" O it's true, sir ;" said the school-girl, flushing; 
"that is, I mean she reads as many of them as she 
possibly can." 

"Just so, my dear," said the old gentleman, 



kindly. " But I'm not sure about the wisdom of 
the lady who reads all the new books. It seems 
to me that she often must spend her time very fool- 
ishly — very foolishly indeed, my dear." 

The old gentleman was right. It would be better 
to read no new books at all than to read too many 
of them. A man might live to be as old as Methu- 
selah, and read a good book through every week — 
yes, at the end of a few centuries become really a 
well-read man without once looking into a new book. 
Ever since the days of a grand old poet named 



387J.I 



BOOKS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. 



45 



Chaucer, books have been coming and going. 
Fortunately, that careless old saying, " The good 
die young," cannot be applied to books. Those 
that are worth)- to live do live ; and it would be quite 
" a safe thing for our Methuselah to look only at 
twenty-year old works. 

" Ah, but he would be so far behind the age !" 

True, my dears, and very knowing of you to say 
it. So, to save you from such a fate, we shall try 
now and then to point out as they appear, the new 
books that are worthy of a boy's or girl's attention. 
But, first of all, here is a word of advice. Do not 
read only the new authors : For hundreds of 
years great and good souls have been saying beau- 
tiful things to us all — those who come early and 
those who come late — and their words are as 
precious now as ever they were. It is a good rule 
for young persons not to read any two new- books 
in succession. Always put a good, standard work 
between them ; something that has stood the test 
of time and that lives, which your new book may 
not. There is such a long list of these that you 
must ask your parents and friends to help you 
make a suitable choice, according to your age and 
tastes. Mr. Donald G. Mitchell, who tells you 
about the "Arabian Nights," in this number of 
St. Nicholas, will, we hope, point out and help 
you to enjoy many a fine and delightful old book, 
as the months go on. Meantime, we shall see 
what the publishers are doing for you. Our space 
allows us to mention only a few books this month, 
but we hope to do better next time. 

Roberts Bros., of Boston, send out many good 
books for girls and boys. Of these, we have lately- 
read " Shawl Straps," the second of Aunt Joe's 
Scrap-Bag series, by Miss Alcott ; Miss Woolsey's 
"New Year's Bargain," and a little volume by 
Miss Laura Ledyard, called " Very Young Ameri- 
cans." These all are good, though not among 
the latest, and we recommend them heartily. 
The last two are illustrated by Addie Ledyard, 
who drew the picture "Oh, No!" in this number 
! of St. Nicholas. 

Hurd and Houghton, of New York, have just 
printed a new edition of a capital book, by Arthur 
Gilmans, "First Steps in English Literature." It 
is not meant for the young readers, but all young 
folks from eleven to ninety-nine years of age will 
find it very useful indeed. It is just the book for 
any boy or girl who wishes to know what English 



literature means, where it comes from, what it is 
good for, and how it is to be enjoyed. And, also, 
it is just the thing for persons who know these 
things, and who like to hear all about it again, 
in a few words. It is a very long book or a 
very short one, just as you choose to make it. You 
may read it through in a day, or you may study 
and study it for months, — a good and safe com- 
panion always. 

Scribner, Armstrong &■» Co., of New York, have 
just printed an entertaining book, entitled, a "Jour- 
ney to the Centre of the Earth." It is translated 
from the French of Jules Verne, and is among the 
best of that author's works. It is not written for 
children, but as you young persons are sure to be 
attracted by it, we must tell you not to forget that 
many passages in the book will puzzle you, because 
they are intended for older heads than yours. You 
will find a great deal of information in its pages, 
and a great deal of — stuff; and you'll be sure to 
like its fifty-two wonderful pictures. Altogether, 
we do not object to our boys and girls going to the 
centre of the earth, for a little while, with Jules 
Verne. 

Robert Carter cV» Bros., of New York, offer you 
"The Little Camp on Eagle Hill," by the author 
oi the "Wide, Wide World." This is a story by 
Miss Warner, well worth reading, as indeed all of 
her stories are. 

Porter cV 5 Coates, of Philadelphia, among many- 
new works, have "Adventures by Sea and Land." 
This is such a beautiful book to look at and to 
handle, and its pictures are so very interesting, that 
it will no doubt be given at Christmas to any num- 
ber of boys. If good Santa Claus brings it to you, 
you will be sure to enjoy it ; but you must use your 
own wits through it all, and judge for yourselves 
whether its astonishing scenes are probable or not. 
When you come upon a description, as you will, of 
a serpent seventy feet long, and twice as thick as a 
man's body, it will be well to inquire into the matter 
and see whether these little creatures are known to 
naturalists or not. As the hero of one of these " ad- 
ventures " goes off on a dangerous journey, for the 
mere love of excitement, and almost to the heart- 
break of his young wife, left at home, it strikes us 
that there is no need of wasting much sympathy 
upon him. But he certainly has a hard time of it, 
and so do the astonishing number of wild beasts 
who come in the way of his knife and his bullet. 



4 6 



JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT. 



| November, 






m 




Wi^ j JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT. 



My name is Jack. I am a green thing coming 
up as a flower, yet I know a great deal. For why ? 
The birds come and tell me. 

It is quite common for me to talk of what I hear 
and see, but very few creatures can understand — 
only the owls, for they are wise and keep silence, 
the fairies, who, alas ! are rather flighty, and one 
or two clear-hearted children who sometimes run 
up to me laughing, and say, " Good-morning, Mr. 
Jack-m-the-Pulpit !" 

But here, at last, is a chance. A little bird tells 
me that through St. NICHOLAS the girls and boys 
all over the country may hear what I say. This is 
as it should be. Why, often I stand and talk whole 
days without ever a human being coming near 
me. How would you like that? 

But those times are over now, and I'm as happy 
a Jack-in-the-Pulpit as ever waved. Hereafter, my 
dears, you'll get my messages by paragraph. The 
editors of St. NICHOLAS have laid the paragraphic 
wires, whatever those are, and they say the sooner 
I begin the better. 

Good ! I've sent the birds off in every direction 
to collect information. Not but that I know a 
good deal already, understand, but a city sparrow 
tells me that nowadays young folks want every- 
thing done up just j-tf. (What in the world "just 
so" means I can't understand, but probably the 
birds will bring some word about it.) 

Meantime I'll tell you a few things that will 
astonish you if you are dear, sweet, stupid little- 
folks, and not little Paragons. I don't like little Par- 
agons. They know botany and pull flowers to pieces. 

Hallo ! Mr. Roundeyes, an owl friend of mine, 
says I must take that back. He insists that, of all 
things, a Jack-in-the-Pulpit shouldn't object to 
botany. It helps human beings to understand us, 
he says; sort of lifts them up to our level. All 
right. I apologize. 



A bird that spends much of his time on factory 
roofs tells me that folks are beginning to make 
buttons, combs, door knobs, cups, canes and all 
sorts of things out of leather. They chemicalize 
it, he says, chip it up and dissolve it in certain 
fluids till it is a pulp. Then they make it into 
useful articles by pressing it into moulds of the 
required shape. When they take it out of the 
moulds it is hard and tough. Then they polish its 
surface in some way and the articles are ready 
for sale. 

So, my dears, you may yet comb your hair with 
your skate-straps, button your clothes with your 
boots, drink out of old pocket books and use a 
, worn-out harness for your walking stick. 

WHAT would you say if I told you what coal 
comes from ? It is made of trees, and ferns, and 
twigs, and Jack-in-the-Pulpits — fact. Lazy work, 
though. It takes thousands of years to do it. In- 
quire into this business. 

Here's a conundrum. A bird heard a man give 
it out in Canada : 

I went into the woods and I got it. After I got 
it I searched for it. But I had it in my hand all 
the time, and at last went home because I couldn't 
find it. 

Answer — A splinter. 

Jack knows where there is a tallow tree. 

"Is it a make-believe tree, made out of tallow, 
like candles ?" you ask. Oh, no ; the tallow tree 
is a real tree that grows from twenty to forty feet 
high. Its native place is China, but it has been 
transplanted into some of our hot-houses. The 
tallow comes from the seeds. They are pounded 
and boiled in water, when something like fat rises 
on the top. This fat is skimmed off and when cold 
it is as white as snow and almost as soft. The Chi- 
nese mix this vegetable tallow with wax to harden 
it, and out of the mixture make candles, which give 
a clear, bright light. Now, then, if you want a 
candle, and you know any one who has a hot-house 
with a tallow tree in it, it would be better for you 
to buy a candle in a grocery store ; for I do not be- 
lieve you could make one without wasting a great 
many tallow-plant seeds. 

In parts of Switzerland, when two men have 
quarreled with each other, and their friends are 
anxious to see them reconciled, they endeavor to 
bring them unawares under the same roof. If the 
two enemies sit down at the same table they are 
pledged to peace. They break a piece of bread 
together, and are friends once more. It would be 
a good idea if every boy or girl who quarrels with 



8 7 U 



THE RIDDLE BOX. 



47 



mother boy or girl, should "make-up," and be- 
;ome reconciled the moment the}- happened to eat 
jread together in the same county ; at least, that 
s what Jack thinks about it. 

HERE is a little news ! Some clever children 
n New York, known as the Vaux Brothers & Co., 
lave printed a book of their grandmother's re- 
apes for cooking, printed it with their own hands 
ind in the very neatest style. Their grandmother 
s the best cook in the country, they say. It is 



evident that they have grand visits at this dear 
grandmother's house, and that they are not willing 
to keep the secret of her wonderful dinners and 
suppers to themselves. They've very sensibly 
bound blank sheets in the book for the convenience 
of house-keepers, and I'm told the printed recipes 
are excellent, telling how to make good soups, 
salads, biscuits, and every delicacy down to the 
cake called snichadoodles. I object to this last. 
It takes three eggs, and that's nothing more nor 
less than murder. 



THE RIDDLE BOX. 



CLASSICAL ENIGMA. 

I AM composed of 22 letters. 

My 10, 5, 3, 4, 12, 6, 16, 21, was name given by the 
Jreek poets to Italy. 

My 18, 22, 21, 15, 16, 7, S, was a witty clerk employed 
ly Roman auctioneers, B. C. 1 10. 

My 13, II, 19, 9,21, was the goddess of the hearth. 

My 20, 14, 7, 9, 21, was the wife of Agron, king of the 
llyrians. 

My I, 2, 22, 21, was a daughter of Cronos. 

My 17, II, 6, 14, 16, 3, was a daughter of Pyrrhus I., 
dng of Epirus. 

My whole is a star. 

RIDDLE. 

Two heads I have, and when my voice 

Is Tieard afar, like thunder, 
The lads and maids arrested stand, 

And watch and wait with wonder. 

Quite promptly I'm obeyed, and yet 

'Tis only fair to say, 
My master bangs me, right and left, 

And him I must obey. 

ELLIPSES. 

Fill the blanks with the same words transposed, as 

I. Our a blackbird. Ans. Our host shot a 

blackbird. 



ANAGRAMS. 



, I wish you would amuse the . 

, wdl you find my ? 

has herself very much. 

He was able to my opinions in various 

I never can a cage-full of without 



2. 

3- 

4- 

5- 
6. 
hudder. 
7 The 



1. Rise late. 


6. 


Red sables. 


2. I made time. 


7- 


Just ran oil. 


3. Peter so sly. 


S. 


Green mantle. 


4. Act I pray. 


9- 


I scare Nat. 


5. Acts abide. 


10. 


I can trace iron 




and 



grew on the edge of the ■ 



4 8 



THE RIDDLE BOX. 



[November, 



abe Dteion. 



THE VISION. 

A London Spectacle-maker is- 
sues this musical advertisement. 

What sort of a vision do you 
readers of music find in it ? 



^iiigtl 



21 



ibSr 



V! 



# /• 



^ 



*r*r 



siiiiM 




# 



DIAMOND WORD. 

1. I fly about, but never play. 

2. As I am old, I'm thrown away. 

3. My eyes are scarcely ever blue. 

4. In Scotland I am listened to. 

5. I'm rough and ready, by the way. 

6. High up a tree I'm glad to play. 

7. I'm in the middle of the sea. 

And now what do you think of me ? 
Some people in me much rejoice, 
And some despise mv very voice. 



LOGOGRIPH. 

Find a useful domestic article of six letters out of 
which you may make thirty-three nouns. 



PARAPHRASED PROVERB. 

An anxiety in a smaller degree timepiece hotel to at- 
tempt to equal-tes a night-watch emblem of industry 
enemy. 




GEOGRAPHICAL REBUS. 
In the above picture will be found over fifty geographical names. Who can give us the most of them ? 



(Answers to all Riddles and Puzzles Next Month.) 




THE WONDERFUL RIVER. 



ST. NICHOLAS. 



Vol. I. DECEMBER, 1873. No. 2. 



JACK FROST. 

By Celia Thaxter. 

RUSTILY creak the crickets — Jack Frost came down last night : 

He slid to the earth on a starbeam, keen and sparkling and bright. 

He sought in the grass for the crickets with delicate, icy spear, 

So sharp and fine and fatal, and he stabbed them far and near: 

Only a few stout fellows, thawed by the morning sun, 

Chirrup a mournful echo of by-gone frolic and fun — 

But yesterday such a rippling chorus ran all over the land, 

Over the hills and the valleys down to the grey sea-sand ! 

Millions of merry harlequins, skipping and dancing in glee, 

Cricket and locust and grasshopper, happy as happy could be. 

Scooping rich caves in ripe apples and feeding on honey and spice, 

Drunk with the mellow sunshine, nor dreaming of spears of ice. 

Was it not enough that the crickets your weapon of power should pierce ? 

Pray what have you done to the flowers ? Jack Frost, you are cruel and fierce, 

With never a sigh or a whisper you touched them and lo! they exhale 

Their beautiful lives, they are drooping, their sweet color ebbs, they are pale, 

They fade and they die ! See the pansies yet striving so hard to unfold 

Their garments of velvety splendor, all Tyrian purple and gold ! 

But how weary they look, and how withered, like handsome court dames, who all night 

Have danced at the ball till the sunrise' struck chill to their hearts with its light. 

Where hides the wood aster? She vanished as snow-wreaths dissolve in the sun 

The moment you touched her ! Look yonder, where sober and grey as a nun 

The maple-tree stands that at sunset was blushing as red as the sky: 

At its foot, glowing scarlet as fire, its robes of magnificence lie. 

Despoiler ! stripping the world as you strip the shivering tree 

Of color and sound and perfume — scaring the bird and the bee, 

Turning beauty to ashes— O to join the swift swallows and fly 

Far away out of sight of your mischief! I give you no welcome, not I ! 



5Q 



THE BRIGHTON CATS. 



f December, 



THE BRIGHTON CATS. 



By J. S. Stacy. 



Did ever you hear of the Brighton cats ? No ? 
Well, that is strange, for they are very famous 
fellows, I assure you. If you were to go to Brigh- 
ton, in England, you would soon know all about 
them. They are trained pussies, and they are 
not only very good actors, but, what is more pleas- 
ant still, they seem to enjoy their own performances 
very much. Their master loves them dearly, and 
every day they jump up on his shoulders, and, 
rubbing their soft cheeks against his beard, purr 
gently, as if to say, " Ah, master dear, if it were not 
for you, how stupid we should be ! You have taught 



and painting away for dear life on the canvas before 
him. There is always a very queer-looking picture 
on the easel unfinished, and pussy daubs away at 





it when visitors are by ; but when asked whether 
he did it all or not, he keeps very still, and so does 
his master. 

Meantime the two other pussies, whom we must 
know as Tib and Miss Moffit, obeying a motion 
from the master, seat themselves at a table, and 
begin a lively game at chess. The chessmen stand 
in proper order at first, and both pussies look at 
them with an air of unconcern. Soon Tib moves 



us everything." Then the master 'laughs and 
strokes them, before he sets them at work. At 
last his quick command is heard — 

" Pussies, attention ! " 

Down they jump, their eyes flashing, their 
ears twitching and eager, their very tails saying — 
" Aye, aye, sir." 

" Pimpkins, to work ! " 

Pimpkins is a painter : that is, he has learned to 
hold palette brushes and mall stick in one paw, 
and a brush in the other, which you'll admit is 
doing very well for a pussy. With his master's 
help, he is soon in position, perched upon a stool 




i8 73 -] 



THE ERIGHTON CATS. 



51 



his man. Then Miss Moffit moves hers. On 
comes Tib again, this time moving two men at once. 
Instantly Moffit moves three. The game now 
grows serious. Moffit's men press so thickly on 
Tib's that suddenly he gives all of them a shove, 
and Miss Moffit is check-mated ! Then Tib is 
grand. Leaning his elbows on the table, and tip- 
ping his head sideways, he looks at Moffit until 
she fairly glares. 

After this all the pussies are, perhaps, requested 
to wash for their master. And they do it, too, 
in fine style, though, when they are through, Tib 
and Pimpkins generally squabble for a bath in the 
tub, while Miss Moffit hangs the clothes on the 
line to dry. 



ton cats carefully copied from photographs that 
were taken from life not many weeks ago. The 
photographs are very sharp and clear, showing 





every feature distinctly, with just the least blur at 
the tips of the tails, where they wriggled a little. 
When you think how hard it is for real persons not 
to laugh or to move while having a photograph 
taken, you will understand how wonderful the 
Brighton cats are, to be able to stand perfectly 
quiet in these difficult positions, from the time 
when the photographer takes the brass cap from 
the front of the camera until he puts it on again, 
and sets them free. 

" They're too wise to be right," said an old 
apple-woman one day, as she looked at them. 
" It's onnatural — cuttin' about and actin' like 
Christians as they do." 



After work comes play. Miss Moffit and Pimp- 
kins have a little waltz, and Tib slides down the 
balusters. Sometimes Tib amuses himself by 
drawing the cork from his master's ale bottle. And 
then if the foaming ale happens to be unusually 
lively, it makes a leap for Tib, and Tib rubs his 
nose with his paw for half an hour afterward. 

Are they ever naughty ? Yes, indeed. But 
even then their good master is gentle with them. 
He never whips them, but simply looks injured, 
and orders them to "do penance." Poor Tib and 
Moffit, — for they generally are the naughty ones — 
how they hate this ! But they never think of such 
a thing as escaping the punishment. No, indeed; 
they jump upon a chair at once, and, shutting their 
eyes, stand as you see them in the picture, two im- 
ages of misery, until their master says they may 
get down. 

We have had these pictures of the Brigh- 




Tib 

Moffit 
might. 



stood on his hind legs at this, 
shook paws with Pimpkins — as 



and Miss 
well she 



THE WATER DOLLY. 



BILLY BOY. 




POOR Billy boy was music mad, 

O music mad was he ; 
And yet he was as blithe a lad 
As any lad could be — 
With a hi-de-diddle, 
Bow and fiddle, 
Rig-a-me-ho ! sang he — 
For Billy was as blithe a lad 
As any lad could be. 

" Nobody knows the joy I know, 
Or sees the sights I see, 
So play me high, or play me low, 

My fiddle 's enough for me. 
It takes me here, it takes me there- 

So play me low or high — 
It finds me, binds me, anywhere, 
And lifts me to the sky." 
With a hi-de-diddle, 
Bow and fiddle, 
Rig-a-me-ho ! sang he — 
For Billy was as blithe a lad 
As any lad could be. 



THE WATER DOLLY. 
By Sarah O. Jewett. 



The story begins on a Sunday in the middle of 
August. Elder Grow had preached long sermons 
both morning and afternoon, and the people looked 
wilted and dusty when they came out of church. 
It was in the country, and only one or two families 
lived very near, and among the last to drive away 
were the Starbirds, Jonah and his wife, and their 
boy and girl. The wagon creaked and rattled, and 
the old speckled horse hung his head, and seemed 
to go slower than ever. It was a long, straight 
sandy road, once in a while going through a clump 
of pines, and nearly all the way you could see the 
ocean, which was about half a mile away. 

There was one place that Prissy, the little girl, 
was always in a hurry to see. It was where another 
road turned off from this, and went down to the 
beach, and every Sunday that she went to church 
she hoped her father would go this way, by the 
shore. Once in a while he did so, so she always 
watched to see if he would not pull the left hand 



rein tightest, and there was always a sigh of 
disappointment if the speckled horse went straight 
on; though, to be sure, there were reasons why the 
upper road was to be enjoyed. Mr. Starbird often 
drove through a brook which the road crossed, and 
there were usually some solemn white geese dab- 
bling in the mud, which were indignant at being 
disturbed. Then there was a very interesting 
martin-house on a dingy shoemaker's shop — a little 
church it was, with belfry and high front steps and 
tall windows, all complete. To-day Mr. Starbird 
turned the corner very decidedly, saying, " I 
shouldn't wonder if it was a mite cooler on the beach. 
Any way, it can't be hotter, and it is near low water." 
Prissy sat up very straight on her cricket in the 
front of the wagon, and felt much happier, and 
already a great deal cooler. 

"Oh, father," said she, "why don't we always 
go this way ? It would be so much nicer going to 
meeting." 



i8 73 ] 



THE WATER DOLLY. 



53 



"Now, Prissy," said Mrs. Starbird, "I'm afraid 
you don't set much store by your preaching privi- 
leges ;" and then they all laughed, but Prissy did 
not quite understand why. 

"Well," said her father, "it is always three- 
quarters of a mile farther, and sometimes it hap- 
pens to be high tide, and I don't like jolting over 
the stones ; besides, I see enough of the water week- 
days, and Sunday I like to go through the woods." 

It was cooler on the shore, and they drove into the 
water until the waves nearly came into the wagon, 
and Prissy shouted with delight. When they drove 
up on the sand again, she saw a very large sea-egg, 
and Sam jumped down to get it for her. 

"Wouldn't it be nice," said she, "if I could 
tame a big fish, and make him bring me lovely 
things out of the sea ? " 

"Yes," said Sam, "or you might make friends 
with a mermaid." 

" Oh, dear ! " said Prissy, with a sigh, " I wish I 
could see one. You know lots of ships get wrecked 
every year, and there must be millions of nice 
things down at the bottom of the sea, all spoiling 
in the salt water. I don't see why the waves can't 
just as well bring better things in shore than little 
broken shells and old good-for-nothing jelly fishes, 
and wizzled-up sea-weed, and fish bones, and chips. 
I think the sea is stingy ! " 

" I thought you were the girl who loved the sea 
better than 'most anything," said her mother. " I 
guess you feel cross, and this afternoon's sermon 
was long. I'm sure the sea gives us a great deal. 
Where should we get any money if your father 
couldn't go fishing, or take people sailing ? " 

"Oh, I do love the sea," said Prissy; "I was 
only wishing. I don't see, if there is a doll in the 
sea — a real nice doll, you know, with nobody to 
play with it — why I can't have it." 

Soon they were at the end of the beach, by the 
hotel, and then they were not long in getting 
home. 

Just as they were driving into the yard a little 
breeze began to blow from the east, and Mr. Star- 
bird pointed to a low bank of clouds out on the ho- 
rizon, and said there would be a storm before morn- 
ing, or he knew nothing about weather. 

"It is a little bit cooler," said his wife, "but 
my ! I am heated through and through." 

Prissy put on her old dress, and after supper she 
and Sam went out in the dory with their father, to 
look after the moorings of the sail-boat, and then 
they all went to bed early. And sure enough, next 
morning there was a storm. 

It was not merely a rainy day ; the wind was 
more like winter than summer. The waves seemed 
to be trying to push the pebbles up on shore out of 
their way, but it was no use, for they would rattle 



back again as fast as they could every time. The 
boats at the moorings were dancing up and down 
on the waves, and you could hear the roaring of 
the great breakers that were dashing against the 
cliffs, and making the beach beyond white with 
foam. 

There was not much one could do in the house, 
and there were no girls living near whom Prissy 
could go to play with. 

The rainy day went very slowly. For a while 
Prissy watched the sandheaps flying about in the 
rain, and her father and Sam, who were doing 
something to the cod lines. Finally she picked 
over some beans for her mother. Sam and his 
father went down to the fish-houses, and after din- 
ner Prissy fell asleep, and that took most of the 
afternoon. She couldn't sew, for she had hurt her 
thimble-finger the week before, and it was not quite 
well yet. Just before five her father came in and 
said it was clearing away. " I am going out to oil 
the cart wheels and tie up the harness good and 
strong," said he, " for there will be a master pile of 
sea-weed on the beach to-morrow morning, and I 
don't believe I have quite enough yet." 

" Oh !" said Prissy, dancing up and down, " won't 
you let me go with you, father ? You know I didn't 
go last time or time before, and I'll promise not to 
tease you to come home before you are ready. I'll 
work just as hard as Sam does. Oh, please do, 
father!" 

" I didn't know it was such a nice thing to go 
after kelp," said Mr. Starbird, laughing. " Yes, 
you may go, only you will have to get up before 
light. Put on your worst clothes, because I may 
want to send you out swimming after the kelp if 
there doesn't seem to be much ashore." And the 
good-natured fisherman pulled his little girl's ears. 
"Like to go with father, don't you? I'm afraid 
you aren't going to turn out much of a house-, 
keeper." 

The next morning just after daybreak they rode 
away in the cart ; Mr. Starbird and Prissy on the seat, 
and Sam standing up behind, drawn by the sleepy 
weather-beaten little horse. It had stopped rain- 
ing, and the wind did not blow much ; the waves 
were still noisy and the sun was coming up clear 
and bright. They saw some of their neighbors on 
the way to the sands, and others were already there 
when the Starbird cart arrived. For the next two 
hours Prissy was busy as a beaver picking out the 
very largest leaves of the broad, brown, curly-edged 
kelp. Sometimes she would stop for a minute to 
look at the shells to which the roots often clung, 
and some of them were very pretty with their pearl 
lining and spots of purple and white where the 
outer brown shell had worn away. Prissy carried 
ever so many of these high up on the sand to keep, 



54 



THE WATER DOLLY. 



[December, 



and often came across a sea-egg, or a striped peb- 
ble or a very smooth one, or a crab's back reddened 
in the sun, and sometimes there was a bit of bright 
crimson sea-weed floating in the water or left on 




the sand. Besides these there seemed to be a re- 
markable harvest of horse-shoe crabs, for at last she 
had so many that she took a short vacation so as to 
give herself time to arrange them in a graceful 
circle round the rest of her possessions, by sticking 
their sharp tails into the sand. It was great fun to 
run into the water a little way after a long strip of 
weed that was going out with the wave, and once 
as she came splashing back trailing the prize be- 
hind her, one of the neighbors shouted good- 
naturedly: "Got a fine lively mate this voyage, 
haven't ye, Starbird ?" 

Nearly all the men in the neighborhood were 
there with their carts at six o'clock, and there was 
a great deal of business going on, for the tide had 
turned at five, and when it was high there could be 
no more work done. The piles of sea-weed upon 
the rocks grew higher and higher. In the middle 
of the day the men would begin loading the carts 
again and carrying them home to the farms. You 
could see the great brown loads go creaking home 
with the salt water still shining on the kelp that 
trailed over the sides of the carts. You must ask 
papa to tell you why the sea-weed is good for the 
land, or perhaps you already know ? 

But now comes the most exciting part of the 
story. What do you think happened to Prissy? 
Not that she saw a mermaid and was invited to 
come under the sea and choose out a present for 
herself, but she caught sight of a bit of something 
bright blue in a snarl of sea-weed, and when she 
took it out of the water, what should it be but a 
doll's dress ! 

And the doll's dress had a doll in it ! Just as she 
reached it the wave rolled it over and showed her 



its cunning little face. Prissy was splashed up to 
the very ears, but that would soon dry in the sun, 
and oh, joy of joys ! such a dear doll as it was. 
The blue she had seen was its real silk dress, 
and Prissy had only made believe her 
dolls wore silk dresses before. And, 
as she pulled away the sea-weed that 
was all tangled around it, she saw it 
had a prettier china head than any 
she had ever seen, lovely blue eyes, 
and pink cheeks, and fair yellow hair. 
Prissy's Sunday wish had certainly 
come true. What should she wish for 
next? 

But she could not waste much time 
thinking of that, for she found that the 
silk dress was made to take off, and 
there were little buttons and button- 
holes, and such pretty white under- 
clothes, and a pair of striped stockings 
and cunning blue boots — but those 
were only painted on. Never mind ! 
the salt water would have ruined real ones. There 
was a string of fine blue and gilt beads around her 
neck, and in the pocket of the dress — for there was a 
real pocket — Prissy found such a pretty little hand- 
kerchief ! Was this truly the same world, and how 
had she ever lived alone without this dolly ? Some 
kind fish must have wrapped the little lady in the 
soft weeds so she could not be broken. Had a 
thoughtful mermaid dressed her ? Perhaps one had 
been a little way out, hiding under a big wave on 
Sunday, and had heard what the Starbirds said as 
they drove home from church. Prissy was just as 
certain the doll was sent to her as if she had come 
in a big shell with "Miss Priscilla Starbird " on the 
outside, and two big lobsters for expressmen. 

How surprised Mr. Starbird was when Prissy 
came running down the beach with the doll in her 
hand. Sam was hot and tired and didn't seem to 
think it was good for much. " I wonder whose it 
is?" said he. " I s'pose somebody lost it." 

"Oh, Sam!" said Prissy, "she is my own dear 
dolly. I never thought but she was mine. Can't 
I keep her? Oh, father!" — and the poor little 
soul sat down and cried. It was such a disappoint- 
ment. 

" There, don't feel so bad, Prissy," said Mr. 
Starbird, consolingly, " I wouldn't take on so, dear. 
Father '11 get you a first-rate doll the next time he 
goes to Portsmouth. I suppose this one belongs to 
some child at the hotel, and we will stop and see 
as we go home." And Prissy laid the doll on the 
sand beside her, and cried more and more ; while 
Sam, who was particularly cross to-day, said, 
" Such a piece of work about an old wet doll ! " 
"Oh," thought Prissy, " I kept thinking she 



l8 7 3-l 



THE WATER DOLLY. 



55 



was my truly own doll, and I was going to make 
new dresses, and I should have kept all her things 
in my best little bit of a trunk that grandma gave 
me. I don't believe any Portsmouth doll will be 
half so nice, and I shouldn't have been lonesome 
any more." 

Wasn't it very hard ? 

But Prissy was an honest little girl, and when 
her father told her he was ready to go, she was 
ready too, and had the horse-shoe crabs transplanted 
from the sand into a strip of kelp in which she had 
made little holes with a piece of sharp shell, and 
the best shells and stones were piled up in her lap. 
She had made up her mind she could not have the 
doll, and she looked very sad and disappointed. It 
was nearly a mile to the hotel, and it seemed longer, 
for the speckled horse's load was very heavy. 
Prissy hugged the water-dolly very close, and kissed 
her a great many times before they stopped at the 
hotel piazza. 

Mr. Starbird asked a young man if he knew of 
any child who had lost a doll, but he shook his 
head. This was encouraging, for he looked like a 
young man who knew a great deal. Then a boy 
standing near said, "Why, that's Nelly Hunt's 
doll. I'll go and find her." 

Mr. Starbird went round to see the landlord, to 
arrange about carrying out a fishing party that af- 
ternoon, and Prissy felt very shy and lonesome 
waiting there alone on the load of sea-weed. She 
gave the dolly a parting hug, and the tears began 
to come into her eyes again. 

In a few minutes a tall, kind-looking lady came 
down stairs and out on the piazza, and a little girl 
followed her. Prissy held out the doll without a 
word. It would have been so nice to have her to 
sleep with that night. 

" Where in the world did you find her, my 
dear?" said the lady in the sweetest way — "you 
are a good little girl to have brought her home. 
What have you been crying about ? Did you wish 
she was yours ? " And she laid her soft white hand 
on Prissy's little sandy sunburnt one. 

"Yes'm," said Prissy; "I did think she was 
going to be my doll, and then father said somebody 
must have lost her. I shouldn't like to be the 
other girl, and be afraid she was drowned." 

This was a long speech from our friend, for she 

usually was afraid of strangers, and particularly the 

i hotel folks. The lady smiled, and stooped to whis- 

| per to the little girl, who in a minute said, " Yes, 

indeed, mamma," aloud. 

" Nelly says she will give you the dolly," said the 
lady. " We are sorry her clothes are spoiled, but 
some day, if you will come over, I will give you 
some pieces to make a new dress of. It will have 
to be either black or white, for I have nothing else 



here, but I can find you some bright ribbons. 
Nelly left her out on the rocks, and the tide washed 
her away. I hope you will not be such a careless 
mamma as that." 

" Haven't you any dolls of your own ?" said Nelly ; 
"I've six others. This one is Miss Bessie." 

"No," said Prissy, who began to feel very brave 
and happy. " I had one the first of the summer. 
It was only a rag baby, and she was spoiled in the 
rain. Oh, I think you're real good ! " And her 
eyes grew brighter and brighter. 

" Dear little soul," said Mrs. Hunt, as she went 
in, after Mr. Starbird had come back, and they had 
gone away ; " I wish you had seen her hug that 
doll as she turned the corner. I think I never saw 
a child more happy. It had been so hard for her 
to think she must give it up. I must find out 
where she lives." 

You will know that Prissy went home in a most 
joyful state of mind. In the afternoon, just as soon 
as dinner, she went down to the play-house, carry- 
ing the shells and crabs, and she and the new dolly 
set up house-keeping. The play-house was in a 
corner where there was a high rock at the end of a 
fence. There were ledges in the rock that made 
nice shelves, and Sam had roofed it over with some 
long boards, put from the top of the rock to the 
fence, so it was very cozy. There were rows of dif- 
ferent kinds of shells and crab-backs, marvelous 
sea-eggs, and big barnacles by the dozen. Sam had 
rolled in a piece of drift-wood, that had been part 
of the knee of a ship, and who could want a better 
sofa ? There was a bit of looking-glass fastened to 
the fence by tacks, and there had been some pic- 
tures pinned up that Prissy had cut out of a paper, 
but these were nearly spoiled by the rain. A 
bottle, with a big staring marigold in it, stood 
on a point of a rock that she called her mantel- 
piece. Besides these treasures, she had a china 
mug, painted red, with " Friendship's offering" on 
it in gilt letters. The first thing she did was to go 
down to the shore, where she was busy for some 
time washing the dolly's clothes, which were very 
much spotted and crumpled, and full of sand and 
bits of sea-weed. The silk dress could only be 
brushed, her mother told her, and would not 
be quite clean again ; but after all it was quite 
grand. 

Prissy's "wash" was soon hung out on a bit of a 
fish-line, stretched near the play-house, and the 
doll, who had been taking a nap during this time, 
was waked up by her new mother. The sun 
shone bravely in at the door, and all the shells 
glistened. Prissy counted the sails out at sea, and 
noticed how near the light-house looked that day. 
"When I go out there again, you may go, too," said 
she to the doll — " you won't be a bit sea-sick, dear." 



56 



THE GIANT WATABORE. 



[December, 



The water dolly looked happy as if she felt quite 
at home. Nelly Hunt came over next morning 
with a box of " Miss Bessie's " clothes and a paper 
of candy, and when she saw the play-house she 

to 



liked it so much that she stayed all the rest of 
the morning, and came to see Prissy ever 
so many times that summer before she went 
away. 




THE GIANT WATABORE. 

A Big Child's Story. 

By M. M. D. 



In the year no hundred and something and one, 
there lived a mighty giant — a scientific giant, named 
Watabore. This mighty giant was noted for de- 
vouring information. Not an idea nor an opinion 
could come near him, but he would swallow it in- 
stantly. Nothing was too much for him. More 
than once he took in a whole headful of conflicting 
arguments without choking. The country, for miles 
around, rang with accounts of his daring and greed. 

Well, this mighty scientific giant went on in this 
way, devouring information and swallowing all sorts 
of creeds and opinions, whether they agreed with 
him or not, until at last, as might be supposed, his 
system became terribly out of order. His eyes 
couldn't see straight ; his ears deceived him ; his 
appetite was completely gone ; and he grew so thin 
that his poor body was not an eighth of a mile 
around. What to do he didn't know. The things 
he had swallowed disordered him to such an ex- 
tent that everything went against him. The world 
soured on his mind. Everything was confusion. 

When at last he decided to call in a first- 
class homceopath-allopath-hydropath-electric-move- 
ment-cure physician, he found there was no such 
person to be had. He couldn't even get a plas- 
ter-pill-lotion, though he sent to every shop in 
the county. And when he attempted to carry out 
his idea of remaining perfectly quiet with active ex- 
ercise, he found it wouldn't answer at all. All at 
once he remembered that either the telegraphic 
locomotive engine or the steam telegraph, he wasn't 



sure which, was wonderfully good for something, 
if applied boiling cold and taken inwardly on soft 
flannel ; but his friends assured him the thing 
couldn't be done, that no nurse living would under- 
take to apply such a remedy, so he gave it up, 
though his sufferings were fearful. His mind 
couldn't lie easy in any position, and as I said be- 
fore, his appetite was entirely gone. Serve up 
facts, opinions, theories and creeds as daintily as 
his friends might, not one could he swallow. 

They consulted the man in the moon. 

" Let him take a lecture every other night," said 
the man in the moon. 

It was a bitter pill ; but the giant took it. Every 
other night he swallowed a lecture, but it did not 
help him. In fact, he grew worse. There wasn't 
a point on which his mind could rest comfortably. 
Hungrier than ever, it was useless to offer him any- 
thing. Nothing would go down. 

At last, somebody thought of something. 

Show him an opinion-maker. 

They brought him one, but it was such a little thing 
that the mighty giant could make nothing out of it. 
"It seems to be some sort of a hop-toad," said he; 
"big for a hop-toad, yet smaller than those skipping 
things called horses. Fetch me a microscope." 

They brought one. Watabore carefully stood 
the opinion-maker on his finger and commenced to 
examine it. 

"Ha!" cried the giant, "what do I see? Can 
it be possible ? The opinion-maker is nothing but 



873-] 



THE GIANT WAT ABO RE. 



57 



a man ! Grind my teeth ! but he is at work 
now. The little midget is throwing them off be- 
fore my very eyes, — all sorts of opinions, — good, 
bad, and so-so. Some of them worse than so- 
so, — positively poisonous ! And here have I been, 
gulping down his wares whole, without examining 
them. Odd flupps ! The world must be full of 
these creatures. Fetch me another." 

So the giant went on, with his microscope, exam- 



From that day the giant prospered. His appe- 
tite returned ; but, instead of swallowing every 
opinion he met with, he either made very cautious 
selections, choosing the good and rejecting the bad, 
or he prepared his own. He collected the best raw 
material he could find for the purpose, and took 
care to examine his stock very often, so as to 
throw out all opinions that were not worth keep- 
ing. And when he found an opinion very differ- 




THK GIANT WATABORK MAKES A DISCOVERY. 



ining one opinion-maker after another, until he ar- 
rived at the very sensible conclusion, that these little 
creatures might be very useful in their way, but there 
was no reason why he should let them do all his 
thinking. Opinion-making was a business in which 
every one had a right to take part for himself. 



ent from his own, he compared both carefully 
and held to the better one. On this diet his appe- 
tite became just what a healthy giant's appetite 
ought to be, and— that's all I know of the mighty 
scientific giant Watabore, who lived in the year 
no hundred and something and one. 



5S 



THE CRUISE OF THE ANTIOCH. 



[December, 



THE CRUISE OF THE ANTIOCH. 

By Cyrus Martin, Jr. 



" Bless your dear heart ! you don't want to go 
to sea ! " They always said this to little Jack, but 
the small boy, who rejoiced that his home, at least, 
had a flavor of the sea about it, was not a bit 
pleased that old Reeler should so chuck him under 
the chin when he said it. " As if I were a hateful 
little girl," said Jack, angrily. It was a rambling, 
tumble-down old town by the sea where he lived. 
Jack's father, and uncles, and grandfather, and, 
for all I know, his grandfather's father and grand- 
father had been sailors, captains, mates, and 
general ploughers of the sea. As the young- 
ster idled along the beach, watching the fishing- 



Bible, a fine-tooth comb, and a jar of mince jelly, 
of which last Jack was very fond. You may be 
sure she added a mother's blessing ; and thus sup- 
plied, Jack sailed out of the harbor on the stanch 
ship, Antioch ; and the last thing he saw was old 
Keeler sweeping off Tilden's wharf, just as the 
sun rose. He was at sea at last. 

The ship was bound to the North Sea, and Jack, 
who soon grew familiar with all the ways and man- 
ners of sailor life, became the hero of the Antioch. 
When the captain's baby girl fell overboard, who 
but Jack leaped from the main truck, and, gallant- 
ly seizing the little maid by the waist, swam to the 




'bless your dear heart! you don't want to go to sea." 



boats putting off for their short voyages, or 
gazed with a great longing out into the misty blue, 
where sky and water meet, the sailor-men would 
shake their heads and say, "His father and gran'- 
ther were drowned at sea; so'U he be." For Jack 
wanted to go to sea more than anything else. 

And this is how he went : As he lay on his cot one 
night, his mother, who had always said that it 
would break her heart if he went to sea, came to 
him and told him that the good ship, Antioch, was 
going to sail in an hour, and that he might go if 
he wished. She put up a bundle of things in a 
bandanna handkerchief. There was a sheet of gin- 
ger-bread, a four-bladed knife, a ball of rope-yarn, 
a box of dominoes, a pair of blankets, a pocket 



ship with her. It was Jack who put gunpowder in 
the sailors' lobscouse, when they were not looking, 
and laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks as 
they tried in vain to eat it, and swore that the cook 
was poisoning them. When they were lying in 
Snerdavik, on the Swordland Sea, Jack made a 
great name for himself by his whale exploit. He 
saw a monstrous " bight " whale come blowing past 
the Antioch, with a harpoon sticking in his head. 
At one bound, he hopped from the ship's rail to 
the back of the astonished whale, seized the lanyard, 
or rope attached to the harpoon, and, waving his 
hat in return for the cheers from the fleet in the 
harbor, steered his captive up the fiord, and drove 
him ashore, just below the Jotsen Skalder, where 



1873-1 



THE CRUISE OF THE ANTIOCH. 



59 



the huge creature was cut up and made into excel- 
lent oil. 

Passing into the Arctic circle the Antioch was 
locked fast among the icebergs of that frosty region. 
Time hung heavily on their hands, but Jack was, 
as usual, the life of the crew. The songs he sang, 
the games he cut up on the ice, and the adventures 



for nearly six months ; then it is night all the rest 
of the year. The Antioch was soon driving down a 
tropical coast where the shore was lined with the 
most delicious fruits and flowers. Mangos, bananas, 
pine-apples and fragrant nuts loaded the branches, 
and brilliant flowers of unknown kinds swept down 
to the water's edge, and swung dreamilv in the 




JACK STEERED HIS CAPTIVE UP THE FIOKD. 



he had among the polar bears would astonish you 
very much. He had now grown to be quite a man, 
for he had been gone from home many years. He 
did not once hear from his mother ; and though he 
did not notice it then, he thought afterwards that 
it was very queer. 

But waltzing on the ice with the white bears — 
wild fun as it was — could not always last. The ship 
was melted out of her frosty prison by the long 
summer day ; for, in those parts the sun never sets 



crystal tide. But in the tropics, you know, storms 
are sudden and waters are dark too. While Jack 
gazed with longing on the charming sights on 
shore, the black clouds rolled up, the sea rose 
like a mad, hunted creature, and the blinding 
glare of the lightning smote his eyes. His stomach 
reeled and he felt deathly sick ; he seized the rig- 
ging to keep from being washed overboard. On 
the ship drove hurriedly toward the black lodes 
from which the lovely flowers had now gone. The 



6o 



THE DATE AND SOME OTHER PALMS. 



[December, 



captain seized a rope's end, and cutting him across 
the bare legs, bawled — " Lay aloft there, you lub- 
ber, or I'll break every bone in your body ! " Terri- 
fied by such a sudden change in the captain's man- 
ner, Jack, bursting into tears, shouted, " Mother ! 



into his chamber, "you must not lie on your back; 
you'll surely have bad dreams if you do." Jack, 
very much astonished, and still trembling with 
dread of Captain Tarbucket's rope's end, sat up in 
his little white bed. The cruise of the Antioch 



mother!" " Well, my darling," said she, coming was over. 





JACK WALTZING ON THE ICE WITH THE WHITE DEARS. 



THE DATE AND SOME OTHER PALMS. 
By Fannie R. Feudge. 



Dates, to us merely an occasional luxury, are 
to the Arab the very "staff of life," just as the 
camel is his " ship of the desert." The date tree, 
one of the large family of palms, is a native of both 
Asia and Africa, and will grow readily in any sandy 
soil where the climate is not too cold. It was long 
ago introduced into Spain by the Moors, and a 
few are still found even in the South of France. 
But the most extensive date forests are those in 
the Barbary States, where they are sometimes 
miles in length. 

Growing thus, the trees are very beautiful. Their 
towering crests touching each other, they seem like 
an immense natural temple. The walls are formed 
of far-reaching vines and creepers that twine grace- 
fully about the tall, straight trunks, and the ground 
beneath is dotted with tiny wild-flowers that, with 
their rainbow tints and bright green foliage, are 



more beautiful than any floor of costly mosaics. 
For worshipers there are thousands of gay plum- 
aged birds, flitting from bough to bough, as they 
carol forth their morning and evening songs, their 
little bosoms quivering with gladness. 

The Bedouins, or wild Arabs of the desert, who 
consider it beneath their dignity to sow or plant, or 
cultivate the soil in any way, depend upon gather- 
ing the date where they can find it growing 
wild ; but the Arabs of the plains cultivate it with 
great care and skill, thus improving the size and 
flavor of the fruit, and largely increasing the yield. 
In some varieties they have succeeded in doing 
away with the hard seed, and the so-called seedless 
dates, being very large and fine, are highly prized. 
When ripe, the date is of a bright golden color, 
fragrant and luscious ; and in the dry, hot countries 
where palms grow, no better food for morning, 



i8 7 3- 1 



THE DATE AND SOME OTHER PALMS. 



6r 



noon, or night can be found, while one never 
wearies of the sweet pulpy fruit, gathered fresh 
from the tree. But the trees do not bear all the 
year round, of course, and so the Arabs make what 
they call date honey, using for this the juice of the 
ripe fruit, and those who can afford it preserve 
dates fresh through the year, by keeping them in 
close vessels covered over with this honey. 

Wine and spirits are also made from dates by 
distillation ; but they are sold, for the most part, 
to foreign traders. For the Arabs are exceedingly 
temperate in their habits; and poor and ignorant 
as many of them are, a drunken man is never 
found among them. There is still another product 
of the date — one that is of vast importance to 
the poor Arabs in their long journeys across the 
deserts. This is date-flour, made by drying the 
ripe fruit in the sun, and afterward grinding it to 
powder. It is then packed in tight sacks, and if 
stowed away from the damp will keep for years. 
This is food in its most compact form, easily carried 
about, and needing no cooking; it has only to be 
moistened with a little water, and the meal is ready 
for eating. How wisely has the all-loving Father 
provided for these sons of a barren soil, suiting his 
mercies to their needs — giving them for their toil- 
some journeys the patient, hardy camel, the only 
beast of burden that could bear the heat and 
drought of their deserts ; and for their own sus- 
tenance, the wholesome, nutritious date. 

But it is not alone of the fruit of his precious 
tree that the Arab makes use. A pleasant bever- 
age called palm-wine is drawn from the trunk, by 
tapping, as we tap sugar-maples in this country ; 
the trunks of the old trees furnish a durable wood 
for building houses and furniture — the leaves make 
baskets and hats, and the fibrous portions, when 
stripped out, make excellent twine, ropes, and fish- 
ing lines. Even the stones or "pits" are useful — 
the fresh ones for planting, while the dried are turn- 
ed to account in Egypt for cattle feed, in China 
for making Indian ink, and in Spain for the manu- 
facture of the tooth-powder sold as "ivory-black." 

A tree when mature will bear two hundred and 
fifty pounds of dates in a season, and sometimes even 
more. The gathering is no easy task, as I think 
my boy readers would say after they had tried to 
scale one of those straight, round trunks, full sixty 
feet high, without a single branch to handle or 
furnish foot-hold, and the entire stem rough with 
scaly, horn-like protuberances, not pleasant to 
touch with either hands or feet. But these oriental 
fruit gatherers are very agile, and have a way of 
their own to reach these dizzy heights, and possess 
themselves of the tantalizing fruit hidden away 
among those sharp-pointed leaves. First a strong 
rope is passed across the climber's back and under 



his arm-pits, and then, after being passed around 
the tree, the two ends are tied together firmly in a 
knot. The rope is then placed on one of the 
notches left by the foot-stalk of an old leaf, and the 
man slips that portion which is under his arm-pits 
towards the middle of his back, thus letting his 
shoulder blades rest thereon ; and then with knees 
and hands, he grasps firmly the trunk, and raises 
himself a few inches higher. Then holding fast by 
knees and feet and one hand, with the other he 
slips the rope a little higher up the tree, letting it 
lodge on another of those horny protuberances, 
and so on till the summit is gained. The fruit, 
growing in dense clusters at the top, is easily 
plucked and thrown down when it is reached, and 
is then caught in a large cloth held at the cor- 
ners by four men. 

The general name of the palms, of which there 
are a great many varieties, is derived from the 
Latin palma, a hand, from the fancied resem- 
blance of their quaint, pointed leaves to the human 
hand. They are all singularly graceful in structure, 
with tall, straight, branchless trunks, and with 
their ever-verdant crowns that seem almost to 
touch the clouds, are beautiful beyond description. 
Among the ancients, the palm was the symbol of 
victor)', and conquerors in the Grecian games were 
often crowned with chaplets woven of its young 
leaves. 

In the particulars I have named, all the varieties 
of palm closely resemble each other ; in other 
respects each species has its peculiar characteristics. 
I have already described to you the date, and will 
now mention a few others. 

The fan palm is found in greatest abundance in 
the warmer portions of South America and the 
East Indies. It usually grows in groups, and 
lives to the age of a century and a-half. The wild 
tribes of Guaranties, who live near the mouths of 
the Orinoco, derive their entire sustenance from this 
tree. They suspend mats made of the stalks of the 
leaves from stem to stem, and during the long 
rainy season, when the delta is overflowed, they 
reside entirely in the trees; by means of these 
mats keeping warm and dry, and living among 
their leafy bowers as securely as if they belonged to 
the monkey tribe. Their hanging huts are partially 
covered with clay; the fire for cooking is lighted 
on the lower story, and the traveler, in sailing along 
the river by night, sees the flames in long rows, 
looking as if suspended in the air. The fruit of 
this same tree supplies the food of the inhabitants 
of the huts, the sap makes a pleasant drink, the 
blossoms sometimes form an agreeable salad, and 
the pith of the stem contains at certain seasons 
a sort of sage-like meal, with which to vary their 
bill of fare. 



62 



THE DATE AND SOME OTHER PALMS. 



[ December,, 



The cocoanut is another of the palms of special value to the 
people of the tropics. The husk furnishes them with excellent 
ropes, the green nut affords a palatable drink, and the ripe con- 
tains an oil that supplies butter for the table, perfumery for ladies' 
toilettes, and a good light for their houses. The leaves are several 
feet long, glossy and beautiful. The fruit is too well known to 
need description ; as are also the bananas and plantains. But I 
wish you could see the huge, polished leaves, and the bright purple 
blossoms of the plantains — they are so grandly beautiful. Single 
trees will bear about two hundred pounds of ripe luscious fruit at a 
time, and they continue bearing nearly the year round. 

The wild palm of the desert is usually found standing in sol- 
itary grandeur near a fountain ; and you can imagine the joy with 
which the poor thirsty traveler, almost dying for water, sees at 
last, one of these tall trees just visible in the distance, telling 
of at least a tiny, bubbling spring where he will surely find 
water enough to save him from perishing. The stem is usually 
rough and uncomely with the withered rampart of old leaves 
that have remained from year to year, but it is beautiful in the 
eyes of the weary, thirsty, perishing traveler — beautiful as the dis- 
tant light-house to the storm-driven mariner. 

Perhaps, after all, the most curious of the palms is the talipat, 
that derives its name from the Bali word talipoin, which means 
priest, and it is so called because the sacred fans used by Buddhist 
priests are made of these leaves. There is another use made of the 
leaves of the talipat palm, that is deemed by Buddhists quite as 
sacred as the fans : The leaves are dried and pressed perfectly 
smooth, then soaked in milk, and while still damp, they are in- 
scribed with the laws and traditions of the Buddhist faith. The 
people think the book all the more sacred that it is written on the 
leaves of the talipat palm ; and nearly all their religious books, as 
well as important historical records, are written on this material. 
The ink is a sort of wood-oil that is obtained from a tree that 
grows in most parts of India; and the pen is an iron stylus, very 
nearly resembling those formerly used by the Romans for writing 
on their tablets of wax. The books are not bound, nor the leaves 
even sewed together, but are simply strung on silken cords, one 
at each end of the slips, which are readily turned in reading. 

There is said to be in a temple on the island of Ceylon, a book 
written in the Bali language, on the leaves of the talipat palm, 
that contains eleven hundred and seventy-two leaves, or two thous- 
and three hundred and forty-four pages. The talipats are so val- 
uable, that half-a-dozen trees are considered a small fortune of 
themselves, yielding the owner a comfortable support, and furnish- 
ing an important item in the estate bequeathed to his heirs. 





1873.J 



AN ADVENTURE WITH A CRITIC. 



63 



AN ADVENTURE WITH A CRITIC. 
By Johx Riverside. 



If Ned McGilp was not a great painter, it was 
not his fault ; no artist ever worked harder. Early 
and late he was in the fields or woods studying the 
forms and color of trees, rocks, mountains, plants, 
and clouds ; or he was in his studio working out on 
canvas the charming things which he found in 
nature. Yet, somehow or another, his pictures did 
not sell. He could not even get an opinion from 
the critics. His little sister said that everything he 
painted was "just lovely." And another young 
lady, for whom Ned had a very high admiration, 
thought and declared that his pictures were 
"heavenly." But these fair critics could not buy 
his pictures, of course ; and their praises, while 
they fed his vanity, did not help him to fame and 
reputation. Ned used to say that he had never 
met with one honest critic. He was determined 
that he would find one such ; and he did. 

Last summer, despairing of finding anything 
new to paint among the Atlantic States, Mr. Ned 
McGilp packed up his "painting traps" and be- 
took himself to California. People are tired (so he 
said) of smug Connecticut towns, with white 
steeples, nestling among maples and elms ; they 
have been fed so long on White Mountain scenery, 
and Lake Georges, and bosky dells, and sylvan 
glades, that they want something new. I'll go and 
find it. So he went and found it. 

Among the Santa Cruz mountains, a broken and 
picturesque ridge that skirts the Pacific Ocean, just 
south of San Francisco, McGilp fixed his painting 
amp. Near the saw-mill of Mr. J. Bowers, better 
mown as " Missouri Joe," the young artist found 
ihelter and lodging. Most of the daylight hours 
le passed in the open air. The grand old peaks 
and gorges, shining with water-falls, or covered 
vith noble mahogany and madrofia trees, gave him 
. new delight. He painted as if he were mad. It 
/ould be useless to tell you how many yards of 
anvas and square feet of sketching paper he 
overed. Mr. J. Bowers used to remark, thought- 
ally, that " that thar painter chap war a powerful 
abster at his biz." But Mr. Bowers was not the 
ritic Ned McGilp was looking for. He set up his 
asel, day after day, on the mountain side and 
lanfully worked away, forgetting all about his 
'itic. Quite likely he was not expecting him in 
le least. 

One day, leaving the San Gabriel road on the 
ft, and climbing up the Felipe Felipena ridge, 
hich, of course, all California tourists remember, 



Ned planted his easel firmly on a broad bench of 
rock, overlooking a deep ravine, beyond which the 
mountain rose in rocky steeps, dotted with scrubby 
oaks and mansanitas, against the horizon. To the 
right the ravine wound around a noble spike of 
bald, grey rock, down which came tumbling a 
laughing stream, making a soft roar of mirth in the 
air. This was the scene which he had looked 
at, and decided days before, should be the subject 
of his grand picture. Swiftly he went to work, 
softly repeating to himself the lines of some favor- 
ite poet of nature, as he spread his colors and made 
his canvas begin to glow with the tender hues of 
sky and mountain. 

So intent was he upon his work, that he did not 
know that a large black bear, one of a numerous 
family that lives in the Santa Cruz mountains, 
had quietly come up behind him, and now, gravely 
squatted down, was watching him at his work with 
great interest. Ned's brushes flew swiftly ; the 
colors beamed on the canvas, and the lines of the 
picture grew firm and clear. Bruin looked on at- 
tentively; and Ned said softly to himself, "This 
might please the critic — if he ever sees it. This is 
the picture that shall make my fortune, if I ever 
make it." He paused a moment to think of the 
little girl with brown eyes who thought his pic- 
tures "heavenly," when he heard behind him a 
contemptuous chiff, as if some one said, " I have 
a very poor opinion of that." He looked about, 
angrily, and saw Bruin regarding him and his work 
with great disdain. 

Mr. McGilp might have stopped to argue the 
case ; he was in a great hurry, however, and fled 
at once, leaving behind him his picture, brushes, 
colors, hat, and even his loaded gun, which hap- 
pened to be nearer the bear than the artist. He 
did not stop until he reached the opposite side of 
the ravine, when, expecting to feel the bear's sharp 
claws on his shoulders, he ventured to look around. 
To his great relief, Bruin had not followed one 
step of the way; but, on the other side, the un- 
gainly creature stood on his hind legs, regarding 
the unfinished picture with an air of great dissatis- 
faction. He growled at it roughly, in the manner 
of most critics ; perhaps he found something wrong 
in the distance, or the drawing was faulty. I am 
inclined to think that he was much displeased with 
the boldness of the coloring. At any rate, he 
rudely knocked over the easel, put one paw on the 
canvas, and then deliberately licked off every scrap 



6 4 



AN ADVENTURE WITH A CRITIC. 



[December, 



of the beautiful colors. Even this did not soften his 
rage — perhaps it was not to his taste — and, after 
mashing the painter's color-box into small bits, he 
seized the gun, and began to hug and twirl it about 
with rage. Bang ! bang ! went the gun, for both 
barrels were loaded. Bruin looked at the smoking 
muzzle of the gun with great surprise, clapped his 
paw to his own black muzzle, as if he did not like 
the smell of powder, gave one yell of dismay and 
astonishment, dropped the battered gun, and fled 
up the mountain side much quicker than Mr. Ned 
McGilp had before fled in the opposite direction. 
Very cautiously, McGilp returned to the ruined 



rifle, went in pursuit of the courageous critic. He 
never found him. Perhaps he had an engagement 
on some of the New York newspapers ; I think I 
have heard of him since. But Mr. Ned McGilp 
painted his damaged picture over again. He put 
in the ravine, waterfalls, sky, and mountain, just 
as before. But he added a portrait of himself at his 
easel with his severe bear-critic gazing on the work. 
This last picture was much more interesting and 
valuable than the first one would have been, had 
Ned finished it. The figure of the black bear in 
the painting excited so much curiosity and comment 
when it was exhibited, and when it became known 




•this picture shall make my fortune, SAID NED. 



outfit, picked up the shattered canvas and color- 
box, and went back to Bowers' saw-mill with much 
lowness of spirit. He had met his critic, at last. 

Mr. Bowers was disgusted "that thar pictur chap 
should be chased by a bar," and, taking down his 



that the bear incident was a real one, that the pic- 
ture sold for a high price. More than this, it gave 
Ned such a good reputation as an artist that he is now 
quite satisfied that, after all, his "grand picture" 
will be the means of really making his fortune. 



■8731 



NAYLOR O THE BOWL. 



65 




NAYLOR O' THE BOWL. 

By Rebecca Harding Davis. 



The story of Beak's Derricks was this. Jem 
Beak was a sharp young fellow in a Western town, 
who was paid the high wages which skilled hands in 
the iron mills command. By some chance he heard 

'of a few acres of land for sale in the Kanawha 
(West Virginia) Valley, in which he fancied oil 
might be found. He persuaded some of his com- 
panions, who had saved a little money, to take it 

1 out of savings banks and building associations, to 

'buy the hill-side and go with him to working it. 

If They found oil, not enough to make them rich, 
but to pay them better than iron mills. But with 



Ithe oil or their pay we have nothing to do. 

The derricks stood in a defile or gut of the 
mountains to which the only access was by a creek 
wide and deep enough to float their rafts when 
laden with barrels. Few strangers came to this 
lonely place, and no women. Beak and his five 
partners and their workmen lived in cabins, cooked 
and washed, and served themselves. The shadow 
'of one hill or the other lay over the wells all day 
jlong, giving to the defile a gloomy and forbidding 
fair. Beak used to say, by way of a grim joke, 
jthat the cry of blood seemed to issue from the 
ground, and that the place ought to be called Mur- 
derer's Hollow. Outside of the mouth of the de- 
file, there lay like a wonderful picture, a broad 
river and low green hills over which the birds flew 
and the clouds heaped themselves once or twice a 
day and turned into glittering palaces and towns 
of carnelian and jasper. But Beak and his com- 
.panions cared nothing for rivers or hills unless 
there was oil in them. Very soon, too, no jokes 
passed among the men, grim or otherwise. Lads 
out of mills are not apt to know much about 
the friendships or courtesies or even amusements 
which boys in school and college delight in : even 
'.heir fun is likely to consist in hard hitting. When 
Beak and Welker and the others, therefore, began 
:o quarrel about the yield of oil or amount of 

VOL. I.— 5. 



ground due to each, there were no soft pleasant re- 
membrances or common ground of good-humored 
amusements and politenesses to fall back on for a 
fresh start. They bickered and snarled, all day 
long, and went to bed to rise and bicker again. In 
time they ceased speaking one to the other, giving 
orders each to his own workmen. One after an- 
other would threaten to sell out, but did not sell 
out, afraid the others would cheat him. In old 
times they had been used to take a little holi- 
day, running off in couples to the neighboring 
town for a change of air, and harmless frolic. 
Now they all stayed at the derricks to watch each 
other. Tales of their greed and their quarrels be- 
gan to spread through the country-side, and some 
of the country papers went so far as to call them 
" a band of young thieves and cut-throats, leagued 
together." This, of course, was going too far. 
But people avoided the gloomy valley, and it was 
left to its shadows and ill repute more and more 
with each succeeding year. 

Matters were in this state when Joe Welker re- 
ceived a letter one day, on the reading of which 
his glum face darkened still more. 

" I'll have a mess-mate now, Phil," he said that 
evening to the negro cook who baked and broiled 
for them in turn. Phil was a good-humored, civil 
fellow, and they were all in the habit of gossipping 
with him, good-humor and civility being at so high 
a premium at the Wells. " It's an old gentle- 
man," continued Joe, with a touch of pride, "my 
grandfather. He's been left quite alone in the 
world : I'm his only relative." 

"What ye gwine do wid him, Mr. Welker?" 
" Bring him here." 

Now Phil's idea of an old gentleman was the 
reverend gray-haired clergyman whom he had 
served long ago. "Dis isn't ezactly de place 
for dem ar," he said, gravely looking about 
him. 



66 



NAYLOR O THE BuWL. 



[December, 



Welker, going up to his cabin, looked about 
him, too, and saw for the first time the mud pits, 
the filth gathered in front of the huts, the heap 
of ashes, potato parings and bones at his own 
door. 

"I can't bring him here," he muttered : "but 
what else am I to do ? " 

Welker, scapegrace as he was, had always had 
an absolute reverence for his grandfather Naylor, 
and he felt it to be very strange that he had been 
left to his care. " Seems as if God was in it," 
speaking the name of God for the first time in 
many months without an oath. He fell to work at 
the heap of ashes. By night it was gone. The 
next day Beak's Derricks was amazed to see Welker 
busy whitewashing his cabin. All kinds of jokes 
passed among the men about the visitor he ex- 



He looked behind him, — up — down. 

" Hel-lo ! " he cried. 

Just on a level with his knees was the head of an 
old man, the gray hair falling thick about it. The 
face was pale and wrinkled, but full of kindness 
and good humor — even fun. The old man's body 
was large as Jem's own, but it ended at the knees. 
Both legs were gone. He sat in a low round bas- 
ket on wheels, which he worked slowly along by 
his hands. Jem's " Hello " went down into a com- 
passionate "Tut ! tut ! " as he stooped and pushed 
the basket up to a safer place. The men glanced 
at each other with a pitying shake of the head and 
then took off their hats. "Good day, sir. Hope 
I see you well," one said after the other. To 
Beak or to Welker they would have nodded with 
their hats on. 




"WHAT COULD 1 DO? SAID BEAK AGAIN. 



pected. They said it was a rich relative who would 
lend him money ; or, could it be that Joe meant to 
marry? Whoever it might be would meet with a 
cool reception. Welker was the most unpopular 
of the partners, and the Derricks, without a word, 
entered into a conspiracy to make the place too un- 
pleasant to hold his guest. 

"Gentleman, indeed!" said Beak to some of 
his men, " we want no tag-rags of gentility here." 
Phil had just brought word that the stranger had 
arrived in the night. 

"And this is Mr. Beak, I'm sure?" said a cheer- 
ful, hearty voice from under Jem's feet, as he 
thought. 



"Yes, I am James Beak, sir. And you?" 
"Naylor, Joe Welker's grandfather. 'Naylor 
o' the Bowl ' they call me sometimes," glancing with 
a smile down at his odd carriage. " Yes, I've come 
to live with you all. I wish I was eighteen instead 
of eighty to go in with you in earnest. Five young 
fellows joined together in business and fun. All 
friends! Why, you could move the world if you 
chose. Joe used to write to me about you at first, 
until I knew you all. Precisely the kind of thing I 
should have liked as a boy; but I never, when Joe 
described his chums, thought 1 should be one of 
you. Yet here I am ! " 

" I'm sure we are very glad you are one of us," 



i8 7 3-J 



NAYLOR'O THE BOWL. 



6 7 



said Beak, holding out his hand. " What else 
could 1 do ? " he said afterward, when telling of it. 

Naylor shook it cordially. " There comes an- 
other of the partners; introduce me," rubbing his 
hands in glee. " I want to know you all at once : 
I tell Joe that you must take me into all your trou- 
bles and frolics — eh, boys ? It puts new blood into 
me to come among such a hearty lot of good fel- 
lows, all working together ! " 

" What could I do?" said Beak again, talking 
of it, "I couldn't look the old man in the eye 
somehow and tell him we were living like so many 
•dogs fighting over a bone. I called Pratt up (it was 
George Pratt) and I introduced him to gran'ther 
Naylor. Whether the shock of seeing him 
knocked the wits out of George, or whether he 
was anxious to be friends again, I don't know, but 
after he had shaken hands with the old man, he 
shook hands with me ! " 

Presently the old gentleman bowled himself off 
to find ''some more of his new partners," he said. 
He had brought all the late papers down, and dis- 
tributed them as he went : stopped at every door 
to talk a little, then was off to one well after an- 
other, asking questions, testing the oil, smelling 
bits of the earth and tasting it, as though he were an 
•expert, to the great amusement of masters and men. 

Joe Welker, who had made some excuse for re- 
maining behind, started out to find his grandfather 
. about noon. He could not bring himself to tell the 
old man the truth about the wretched condition 
of affairs in this place to which he had come, and 
preferred to shirk it and let him find out for him- 
self. When he found him, it was in front of black 
Phil's door. The workmen had lifted him, basket 
and all, up on a horse-block, and were lounging 
about eating their " nooning," while he read some 
story from the newspaper, adding anecdotes of his 
own adventures when he was a younger and a 
whole man, which brought forth shouts of laughter 
and applause. Beak, Pratt and Williams (another 
of the partners) were all seated near the door, as 
Welker saw with amazement ; shying away from 
each other gruffly, it is true, yet now and then ex- 
changing words. 

" Time to go home, grandfather," said Joe, 
grimly. 

"Eh? Really, Joseph? The morning has 

passed so quickly that I . Take care, my boy, 

you can't lift me down alone." 

Beak and Williams both started forward to Joe's 
;help. "All right ! " chirped the old man ; " these 
lads would be capital nurses ! Women could not 
j do better. I generally take a nap these hot after- 
noons. As there is only half of me, I don't run 
full time — eh? But come over in the evening, lads. 
Gome over, Joe will be delighted to see you, and 



I've some good cheese there I'd like you to try. 
I brought it with me. You'll all come? " 

" I shall be very happy to see you, gentlemen," 
said Welker, growing red. " They've not let him 
know," he thought; " that was clever of the boys." 

They all answered him politely enough. 

Pratt, however, was the only one who appeared 
in the evening. 

Early the next morning " gran'ther," as they all 
began to call him, began his rounds again. 
Whether because of his white hair, or his utter 
helplessness, or his cheerful, friendly voice, he 
seemed to carry a new life into the gloom and hatred 
of Beak's Derricks. 

Stryber, the roughest and most bitter of the part- 
ners, left a curiously-carved wooden pipe with Phil 
for the old man. " His iace minds me of my own 
father," he said, in explanation. Beak and Wil- 
liams looked up some books to lend him which had 
been stowed away in their cabins for man)' a day. 
Every evening they all gathered about him some- 
where. He had such an inexhaustible store of an- 
ecdotes and riddles that everybody began to beat 
their brains to furnish matches for them; and after 
they had tried them on him, they told them to 
each other. Men cannot keep up ill-humor long 
after they have laughed together. Jokes, puns, 
conundrums flew about the Derricks thick as hail — 
nobody had known what a jolly fellow his neigh- 
bor could be until now. 

The old man, too, was perpetually calling on 
somebody for a song, after piping out "The Bay 
of Biscay," or "The Maid of Lodi," in his shrill 
treble. Now, there was not a man at the wells who 
did not think himself a very fair singer. In the 
course of a week or two you would hear songs of 
all sorts in all kinds of voices — tenor, baritone, bass 
— roared and shouted and mumbled all day long. 
The raftsmen on the river began to suspect the 
town of drinking too hard, so jolly and gay had it 
gradually become ; even the shadow of the hills fell 
less heavily, Beak fancied, than before. 

It was on the fourth Sunday after his arrival that 
the old man began his rounds early in the morn- 
ing. Tapping softly on every door with his stick, 
" Ho, boys," he said, " Parson's come ! Did not ex- 
pect to get over for two weeks, but here he is ! 
Preaching in the big shed at ten o'clock. Bring 
your hymn books ; everybody must sing." 

Now, Mr. Armstrong, the clergyman, who came 
two or three times in a season to preach to these 
people, was used to see the big shed very nearly 
vacant. What was his surprise, therefore, to find all 
the partners and many of the men seated and or- 
derly before he began. He observed the glances 
they gave furtively to a poor mutilated stump of a 
man who sat in the midst of them. 



68 



NAY LOR O THE BOWL. 



[December 



"They are afraid of him," he thought shrewdly. 
" They are afraid he should know they never have 
been here before." He saw what they could not. 
What a rare, strong meaning was in the old man's 
face ; what wisdom and fine charity under the jol- 
lity and good humor. " There is a man," he said 
to Beak, "who is born with a power of leading 
other men. His influence is good here." 

"I don't know — why, certainly, it is good," said 
Beak, who had not thought of it before, "it would 
not be so great if he had his legs," laughing. " But 
the men regard him both as they would a child and 
an old man. He is as helpless as a baby, you see, 
and as wise as the prophet Elijah, though he never 
lectures us," laughing. 

" There are other ways of preaching than in the 
pulpit," said Mr. Armstrong. 

Now, a great deal may be done by joking and 
laughing, and kindly talk in the way of keeping 
peace and harmony in a community. Even one 
pleasant, good-humored face every day going up 
and down among us is like mortar that holds all 
conflicting parts together. But gran'ther Naylor's 
work was not complete. At the end of the year he 
was still the centre of the once jarring, disorderly 
village ; no longer jarring or disorderly. Welker's 
cabin had been the first to reach the honor of a 
coat of paint; in the spring the old man wheeled 
his basket about the yard setting out pear and 
plum trees where the pigs and dung-heaps had 
been. Very soon, paint, whitewash and fruit-trees 
came into fashion. The workmen collected about 
him, as usual, in the evenings. Many was the fight 
nipped in its bloody growth by the sound of the 
paddle, paddle of Naylor's bowl along the cinder 
walk ; many a young fellow set down the glass of 
whiskey untasted and sneaked hurriedly from the 
bar-room, hearing the old man's hearty voice out- 
side. But the partners were not friends. They 
nodded gruffly when they met, and each would 
willingly have gone back to their old brotherhood, 
but pride held them back. 

The winter of '59 was a severe one. The one 
street of Beak's Derricks was well nigh impassable 
for full-grown men ; no one was surprised or anx- 
ious, therefore, at missing Naylor o' the Bowl from 
his accustomed haunts. But one day word went 
about that the old man was ill and wished to see all 
his old friends. The work at the wells flagged that 
day ; the men, dressed in their Sunday clothes, 
with a liberal display of white shirts and red cra- 
vats, were going to Welker's cabin from morning 
until night, singly and in groups, always coming 
out with cheerfuller faces than when they went in. 

"He'll come round," they said to each other. 
"Dying men don't have that spirit nor courage;" 
for Naylor had joked and laughed with them just 



as he had always done. He never had preached to 
nor advised them, and they did not notice that the 
joke and laugh always left them more kindly, hap- 
pier men. 

"I did not want to say good-bye to any of them," 
the old man said to Joe. "And when our partners 
come, put me in my basket ; let the lads remem- 
ber the old man at the last as they have always 
known him." 

He always called Beak, Williams, Stryber and 
Pratt "our partners," though he knew they were 
not even Joe's partners any longer. Welker 
had scarcely raised him up into his wicker bowl 
when the young men came. It was noticeable 
that they came together, nodding to each other 
gravely as they first met. Pratt, who was the gen- 
tlest and most kindly-natured among them, was the 
first to speak. 

"The old man's going fast, I hear. Well, the 
Derricks will lose a good friend." 

" None better," said Stryber, gloomily. 

They had reached the cabin now and went in. 
The window shutters were open. The cheerful 
sunset light fell on the mutilated old creature in 
his bowl, raised on a table to a level with their 
heads. His wrinkled face was strangely pale. The 
white hair hung about his neck, but his blue eyes 
were joyous as a boy's going home after a long ab- 
sence. He held out both hands. 

"Here you are, lads, here you are!" 

The men crowded around him. They touched 
each other in touching him. Their faces were 
gloomy and agitated. 

"Have you any pain, grandfather?" said 
Beak. 

"No, just weak — weaker every day; death 
couldn't come more pleasantly — with all my part- 
ners about me too," looking about with a feeble 
laugh. 

Nobody could answer him. His head dropped 
on the rim of his bowl. Stryber and Joe lifted it 
and joined hands to support it. 

"It's all been so pleasant," said Naylor o' the 
Bowl, looking at the young men and past them at 
the hills without. "It's been a good friendly world, 
but so is the other — so is the other. There's friends 
watching me go here, and friends watching for me 
to come yonder." 

"Water," whispered Williams. Beak brought 
it and wet his lips. The men were young ; death, 
was not a common thing to them. It seemed as 
though they, too, stood in its dreadful light, on the 
edge of the unknown sea. with the worlds on this 
side and on that, where all were friends. Friends ? 
With whom were they friends? How would their 
greed, and hate and bitterness avail them when 
they stood where the old man stood now? 






f8 7 3-l 



NAYLOR O THE BOWL. 



6 9 



He looked from one set and stern face to the 
other. "Boys, I think I'm going now," he said, 
gently. "I'll not say good-bye, because — because 
you're all coming to meet me some day — we'll be 
friends there again and partners — eh, boys? All 
friends — and — and partners?" His eyes turned on 
them from the verge of that unknown world, eager 
and begging of them. 



The men looked at each other with no hasty 
emotion, but a long unanswered question in their 
eyes. Then as by one impulse they joined hands. 

"We'll meet you, gran'ther," said Beak, "and 
will be friends again and partners." 

When they turned to the old man again his eyes 
were closed. 

Naylor o' the Bowl's work was done. 




THE moon came late to the twinkling sky, 
To see what the stars were about : 
" Fair night," quoth she, " are the family in ? 
" Oh ! no, they are, every one, out." 



yo 



THE TEN LITTLE DWARFS. 



[December, 



THE TEN LITTLE DWARFS. 



From the French of Emile Soitvcstrc. 



By Sophie Dorsey. 




|»HE long winter evenings had set in, 
and William's farm-house was the 
scene of frequent gatherings of friends 
and relatives. After the day's work, 
the family were accustomed to assem- 
ble around the fireside, and neigh- 
bors joined them ; for in the solitary 
valleys of the Vosges Mountains, 
dwellings are scattered and neighbor- 
ship establishes a sort of relationship. 
is there, around the glowing flame of pine 
knots, that friendships are cemented ; the sweet 
warmth of the fire, the joyous reunion, and the 
freedom of conversation lead to intimacies. Hearts 
freely open to hearts, and minds unite in a thou- 
sand projects, each inner life is thrown into a com- 
mon stock, the outer one being cast off for the 
occasion, as a mask thrown aside. 

Sometimes Cousin Prudence joined the evening 
party, in spite of the distance he had to come, and 
then it was a real holiday at the farm ; for this 
cousin is the cleverest "story teller" in the moun- 
tains ; he not only knows all those the fathers have 
related, but also those told in books. He knows 
when all the old houses were built, and the histories 
of all the old families. He has learned the names 
of the moss-covered stones, which rise upon the 
hills like columns, or like altars ; he is, in short, a 
living tradition of the country and its lore. And 
more than that, he is the Wise Man. He has 
learned to read hearts, and he rarely fails to discover 
the cause of any ill that may afflict them ; others 
may know remedies for the infirmities of the body, 
but the old peasant treats infirmities of the soul, so 
the popular voice has bestowed on him the respected 
name of "Goodman Prudence." 

It is the first time within the new year that he has 
appeared at the farn gatherings, and every one, 
at the sight of him, shouts for joy ; they give him 
the very best place by the fireside, they form a 
circle around him, and William, the farmer, lights 
his pipe and seats himself right in front of him. 
The Goodman Prudence is then, first by one and 
then by another, informed of every piece of news 
about everything and everybody in the neighbor- 
hood ; he wishes to know how the crops turned 
out, if the last colt is thriving, how the poultry yard 
is flourishing ; but all his inquiries, when addressed 
to the farmer's wife, formerly so cheerful, are an- 



swered slowly and in an uninterested manner, as if 
her thoughts were elsewhere ; for the pretty Martha 
thinks often of the village where she grew up, re- 
grets the dances under the Elms, the long walks in 
the fields with her young companions, when they 
laughed and plucked flowers from the hedges, the 
long chats in the square and at the fountain. So it 
often happens that Martha sits with her arms list- 
lessly hanging by her side, her pretty head droop- 
ing, and her mind occupied with the past. This 
very evening, whilst the other women worked, 
she sat before her spinning-wheel, which did not 
turn, her distaff, filled with flax, hanging idly to 
her girdle, her fingers playing abstractedly with the 
thread lying over her knees. 

The Goodman Prudence had observed all this 
from the corner of his eye, without saying anything, 
for he knew that good council is like bitter medi- 
cine to children, and that the manner and the time 
for administering it must be well chosen to make it 
acceptable. 

In the meantime the family and neighbors sur- 
rounded him, and cried out, " Goodman Prudence, 
a story, a story ; " the old peasant smiled and cast 
a glance toward Martha, still sitting listless. 

" That is to say," said he, " that one must pay 
for his welcome — well you shall have your way, my 
good folks. The last time I told you of the olden 
times, when the Pagan armies ravaged our moun- 
tains ; that was a story for the men ; now I shall 
speak, if it please you, to the women and children; 
every one must have his day. We told then, of 
Caesar, now I will tell of Mother Water Green." 

Everybody burst into a great laugh at this, and 
all quickly settled themselves to hear. William, 
the farmer, re-lighted his pipe, and the Goodman 
Prudence commenced : 

This story, my dears, is not a nursery tale; 
you can read it in the Almanac, with other true 
tales, for it happened to our grandmother Char- 
lotte, whom William knew, and who was a wonder- 
fully reliable woman. Grandmother Charlotte was 
also fair in her time, though, you would hardly 
credit it, when looking at her gray locks and her 
hooked nose always trying to meet her chin, 
but those of her own age said there was no better- 
looking, or gayer girl anywhere than she, when 
she was young. Unfortunately, Charlotte was left 
alone with her father, in charge of a large farm, 



i8 73 .] 



THE TEN LITTLE DWARFS. 



71 



much more productive of debts than of income, 
and work so constantly succeeded work, that the 
poor girl, who was not made for so much care, 
often fell into despair and took to doing nothing, 
since she could not find the way to do everything. 
One day, whilst sitting before the door, her hands 
under her apron, like a lady with frost-bitten fin- 
gers, she commenced to say, in a low tone: "God 
forgive, but the task which has been laid upon me 
I is not such as a Christian can bear, and it is a great 
- pity that I am tormented at my age with so many 
i cares; why, if I was more industrious than the 
sun, quicker than water, and stronger than fire, I 
could not do all the work of this family. Ah! why 
ii is not good fairy Water Green still in the world? 
ior, why wasn't she invited to my christening, and 
asked to stand godmother? If she could hear me, 
; and would help me, perhaps we should get relief 
, from our troubles, — I from my care, and my father 
; from his debts. " 

d "Be satisfied, then, here I am," interrupted a 
i voice, and Charlotte saw before her Mother Water 
Green supporting herself on her staff of holly. 

At first, the young girl was frightened, for the 

fairy was dressed very differently from the costume 

of the country; she was clad entirely in a frog skin, 

I the head of which served as a hood, and she herself 

i» was so ugly, old, and wrinkled, that if she had been 

'worth a million, no one would have been bold 

•enough to marry her. Nevertheless, Charlotte 

recovered herself quickly enough to ask of the fairy, 

r. with a voice rather tremulous but very polite, what 

she could do to serve her. 

" It is I who have come to serve you," replied the 
told woman. "I have heard your complaints, and 
have brought something to relieve you." 

"Are you really in earnest, good Mother?" cried 
^Charlotte, who quickly, in her joy, lost her fear of 
her visitor. "Do you come to give me a piece of 
cyour rod, by which 1 can make my work easy?" 

"Better than that," replied Mother Water Green. 
"I bring you ten little workmen, who will do all 
(ithat you order." 

"Where are they?" cried the young girl. 
"I will show them to you." The old woman 
opened her cloak, and out popped ten little dwarfs 
»f different heights. 

The two first were very short, but quite stout. 
r'These," said she, "are the strongest; they will 
aielp you in every work, and they make up in 
j.trength what they want in dexterity; those that 
s/ou see follow them, are taller and more adroit, 
hey know how to milk, to handle the distaff, and 
I o take hold of all housework ; their brothers, whose 
*,all figures you see, are remarkably clever in the 
:ise«of the needle, and that is the reason I have 
'lapped little thimbles of brass upon their heads in- 



stead of caps ; here are two others, who are not so 
smart, and who wear a ring for a girdle, they can- 
not do much more than aid in the general house- 
work, as also these last little ones, and they are to 
be estimated by their willhigness to do what they 
can — all ten of them appear to you, I warrant, very 
insignificant fellows, and not worth much, but you 
shall see them at work, and then you can judge." 

At these words the old woman made a sign, and 
the ten dwarfs sprang forward. Charlotte saw them 
execute successively the rudest and the most delicate 
work, lend themselves to everything, prepare every- 
thing, and accomplish everything. Amazed, she 
uttered a cry of delight, and stretching her arms 
toward the fairy, "Ah ! Mother Water Green," she 
cried, "lend me these ten brave workers, and 1 will 
ask nothing more." 

"I will do more than that," replied the fairy, 
"I -mil give them to you, only as you cannot carry 
them about with you without being accused of witch- 
craft, I will order each of them to make himself very 
little and to hide in your ten fingers." One word, 
and this was done. 

"You now know what a treasure you possess," 
continued Mother Water Green, "and all depends 
upon the use you make of it. If you do not know 
how to control your little servants, if you allow them 
to grow clumsy by idleness, you will gain nothing 
from my gift, but if you direct them properly, and 
for fear that they should pass their time in napping, 
never allow your fingers any repose, you will find 
the work, which now so frightens you, done as if by 
magic." 

The fairy spoke truly, and our Grandmother, 
who followed her advice, not only cleared, at last, 
the farm from all its difficulties, but made money 
enough, after marrying happily, to raise eight 
children comfortably and respectably. Since that 
time it has become a tradition amongst us, that all 
the women in the family have inherited Mother 
Water Green's workers, for whenever they stir them- 
selves these little laborers go to work, and we great- 
ly profit thereby, and it is a common saying with 
us, that in the movement of the housewife's ten 
fingers lies all the prosperity, all the joy, and all 
the happiness of the family. 

In speaking these last words the Goodman Pru- 
dence turned towards Martha — the young wife 
blushed, lowered her eyes and picked up her distaff. 

Farmer William and his cousin exchanged a 
glance — all the family silently reflected upon the 
story, each one seeking to penetrate its full mean- 
ing, and apply the lesson to him, or her, self. But 
the farmer's pretty wife had already understood to 
whom it was addressed, for her face had become 
gay, the spinning-wheel turned rapidly, and the flax 
soon disappeared from the distaff. 



FOR THE BIRDS. 



| December, 



FOR THE BIRDS. 
By C. C. Haskins. 



, ^*? 



fit 






o 



y Dear Children 7 : I have 
; been thinking for a long time of 
^K.11 WW i'WIk writing a plea for a large family 
of our friends who are wantonly 
destroyed and abused by impul- 
sive persons without good rea- 
son, and, very often, thought- 
\ I "OwJ lessly. These friends are con- 
stantly at work for our good, 
and are doing much to cheer 
and enliven our every-day lives. 
If they were suddenly extermin- 
ated, we should sadly miss them, 
and regret their absence They 
are the birds — all of them — 
, from the eagle and the vulture 
JX rfi \\ down to the tiniest humming- 
bird that pokes his little needle 
bill into the depths of our 
delicate flowers, and makes an 
ample dinner on less than a 
, drop of honey. 

St. Nicholas and I have 

L£$? \ J] had some correspondence on 

the subject of the abuse of birds, 

and we have devised a plan for 

K their protection. How do you 

think we propose doing this? 

We are going to raise an army 

i of defense, without guns, and 

-j carry war right into the enemy's 

camp. We shall use example 

and argument and facts, instead of powder, and we 

must try to carry on the war until we conquer, and 

the birds have perfect peace. 

Before we can do much we must drum up our 
volunteers. We want all the boys, and the girls also, 
to form themselves into companies. But if any of 
the good fathers and mothers desire to. join our 
young folks' army, we shall be heartily glad to 
have them do so. 

Through St. Nicholas we will be 
enabled to learn the plans of our 
commanders, and the movements of 
the enemy ; in it we can urge the 
claims of the birds, and answer all the 
false logic of any who dare oppose us. 
There have been, at different times, 
in some parts of Europe, societies 
organized for the extermination of 
particular kinds of birds, because they 



V UJ 





were said to destroy fruits and grains. At an 
annual meeting of one of these, in the County of 
Sussex, England, the report of the bird murderers 
showed that this club alone 
had put to death seventeen 
thousand sparrows ! This 
was only in one county. 
Other counties encouraged 
the same sort of slaughter. 
In France, too, the same 
outrageous killing was en- 
couraged, and poisoned grain 
was sown, year after year, 
until the rapid increase of 
noxious insects completely ruined several of the 
grain-producing districts, and convinced the people 
of the error they had committed. A law was then 
passed, protecting the birds, and with the return of 
the merry little worm-eaters, the insects diminished 
in number, and the fields again became productive. 
By careful investigation, it has been ascertained 
that a single pair of European sparrows, during the 
infancy of their brood, feed their little ones an ave- 
rage about three thousand three hundred and 
sixty caterpillars in a week ! Now, take your 
slates and pencils, my little friends, and see how 
many caterpillars in a month the sparrows killed 
by that Sussex County club would have destroyed 
if they had been permitted. Think what quantities 
of pretty leaves, how many bushels of grain, and 
what an abundance of nice fruit must be destroyed 
by the taking off of seventeen thousand worm-eating 
birds ! 

There is a class of birds which feed on very small 
seeds. Did you ever shake a dry weed-stalk and 
see what quantities of seed fell from it ? It makes 
very abundant provision for plenty of weeds of its 
kind next year. The seed-eating birds, who live 
mostly on this kind of seed, do more than the farm- 
er and all his help in preventing the increase of 
weeds ; and without the birds the farmer 
would find his plow and hoe work more than 
doubled. 

Hawks and crows are our friends. So are 
the owls. The snakes, and mice, and rats 
devoured by these good fellows far ex- 
ceed all that are killed by all the 
terrier dogs on the continent. And 
birds are my especial preference 
for two other reasons : I never have 
to beg meat for them at the butchers'. 






1373-1 



FOR THE BIRDS. 



73 



and I never heard of one having the hydrophobia. 
They do occasionally take a chicken for a holiday 
dinner, perhaps : but the rats and the weasels do 
•..,-, . -tsa;-. . .». much more of that 







sort of rascality than 
they; and if the birds 
were less fearful of 
being shot at and 
trapped there would 
be fewer rats in the 
barns, and the wea- 
sels would have to 
hide or die. 

Almost every boy who goes gunning, if he can 
find nothing that he wants to bang away at, con- 
siders it the next best thing to kill a few woodpeck- 
ers. They look so funny, wrong end up on the side 
of a tree, bobbing and whacking around the loose 
bark, that the temptation is strong, and the poor, 
jolly hammerer has no friends — so bang! — and 
down he comes, and he is given to the dog to play 
with and tear to pieces. That poor little bird, if 
over a year old, has killed and eaten many hundred 
thousands of bugs' larvae, in the form of grubs and 
worms, and almost every one of a kind which 
is injurious to vegetation. The cat-bird, one of our 
finest singers, and a bird that is always sociable, if 
ever permitted to be so, eats a cherry occasion- 
ally, and of course he must be banished or suffer 
death. He pays a better price for every cherry he 
eats than any fruiterer would dare demand in the 
market, in the worms he destroys, and throws in 
a complete bird-opera several times a day in the 
bargain. 

The king-bird, or phoebe-bird, is too often stoned, 
and shot, and frightened — and almost any far- 
mer's boy deems it a duty to risk his neck while 



the bees go and come under his very nose, and 
sometimes he is impudent enough to alight close to 
the entrance, and rap with his bill to announce 
that he is making a call. Oh ! what a rascal ! A 
murderer, calling his victim to the door of his own 
house, that he may kill, and then eat him ! And 
when the bees come to the door to answer the 
knock, Mr. Phoebe selects the largest bee, and 



C-;;.^ 





climbing under a bridge to get at and destroy its 
mud nest. Why? ". He kills our bees /" Well, 
yes, he does kill bees. He is very cunning about 
it, too. He watches the hive, sitting very near, as 



makes off to the 
fence corner or to 
his mud nest to en- 
joy his prize. But 
the queer part of it 
all is that he only 
eats the drone bees, 
which never store 

any honey, and -i-"^ ,."'-?t ? SHS#^ff ..^- 

when the flowers ' '" " ' v '**■ 

become scarce the working bees kill these lazy 
drones and pitch them out of the hive. So the 
king-bird is a help, instead of a damage, to the 
bee raiser. 

There are many reasons, in addition to what I 
have given you, why birds should be protected, 
but I must omit them now, and proceed to our 
organization. 

I want all the little people to assist me in select- 
ing a name for our army. There has been a deal 
of thinking and discussing, and we have said 
"that's it! " "ah, no ! it isn't ! " many times, and 
I am not sure we have quite hit it, yet. What 
do you say? There are "Bird Advocates," "Bri- 
gades," "Guards," " Friends," and ever so many 
more, 'but I am best pleased with "BIRD DE- 
FENDERS." What do you think of it ? 

As a basis on which to commence work, let us 
adopt the following preamble and resolution : 

Whereas — We, the youth of America, 
believing that the wanton destruction of 
wild birds is not only cruel and unwar- 
ranted, but is unnecessary, wrong, and 
productive of mischief to vegetation as 
well as to morals ; therefore, 

Resolved— That we severally pledge 
ourselves to abstain from all such prac- 
tices as shall tend to the destruction 
of wild birds ; that we will use our best 
endeavors to induce others to do like- 
wise, and that we will advocate the 
rights of birds at all proper times, en- 
courage confidence in them, and recog- 
nize in them creations of the great Father, 
for the joy and good of mankind. 
Now, little folks, there is a starting-point ; send 
in your names. St. Nicholas is ready to hear 
from each and all of you on the subject of bird 
protection, and will be glad to learn what you have 



74 



THE YELLOW COTTAGE. 



I December, 



to say about organizing yourselves for this really for our little feathered friends who, poor things, 

important and humane work. Come forward freely are unable to defend themselves from their thought- 

with your plans, and let us all put our wits together less or cruel enemies. Here is an opportunity for 

and see if we can not decide upon a line of defence all of us to do good work. 




LOOKING THE WRONG WAY. 

(Translation of German Story in our November Number.) 



Little Lizzie had the bad habit of never look- 
ing before her. She was always gazing to the right 
or to the left. It happened, once on a time, that 
she ran out with a large piece of cake in her hand 
into a court-yard where some masons were dig- 
ging a hole which the)' intended to fill with lime. 
Lizzie ran gaily about, having entirely forgotten the 
warnings of her mother. Indeed, it was too funny 
to see the large dog, which came circling about her 
and snapped at the cake. But, alas ! before she 
saw it, she fell headlong into the pit. Her screams 



brought the workmen to her, and they quickly 
helped the poor child out of the ugly hole. 

Lizzie was obliged now to lie for a long time in 
bed and suffer great pain, while the other children 
were joyfully playing out-of-doors. She resolved 
never again to go one way and look another. Had 
she thought of that before, she would have spared 
her good mother sorrow and herself much pain. 
But it was with her as with the Tyrolese in Mr. 
Stephens' picture. Both failed to look where they 
were going, and we see what happened. 



THE YELLOW COTTAGE. 
By Marion Douglas. 



'Mid fields with useless daisies white, 

Between a river and a wood, 

With not another house in sight, 

The low-roofed yellow cottage stood, 

Where I, 

Long years ago, a little maid, 

Through all life's rosy morning played. 



On winter nights beside the fire, 

In summer, sitting in the door, 

I turned, with love that did not tire, 

Their well-worn pages o'er and o'er ; 

In me, 

Though sadly fallen, it is true, 

Their heroines all lived anew ! 



No other child the region knew ; 

My only playmate was myself, 

And all our books, a treasured few, 

Were gathered on a single shelf; 

But oh ! 

Not wealth a king might prize could be 

What those old volumes were to me ! 



One day, about my neck a ruff 

Of elder flowers with fragrant breath, 

I was, with conscious pride enough 

To suit the part, Elizabeth ; 

The next, 

Ensnared by many wily plots, 

I sighed, the hapless Queen of Scots ! 



THE YELLOW COTTAGE. 



75 



Where darting swallows used to flit, 

Close to me, on some jutting rocks, 

Above the river, I would sit 

For hours, and wreath my yellow locks, 

And trill 

A child's shrill song, and. singing, play 

It was a siren's witching lay. 



On Sundays, underneath the tree 

That overhung the orchard wall, 

While watching, one by one, to see 

The ripe, sweet apples fall, 

I tried 

My very best to make believe 

I was in Eden and was Eve ! 




Oh golden hours ! when I, to-day, 

Would make a truce with care. 

No more of queens, in bright array, 

I dream, or sirens fair ; 

In thought, 

I am again the little maid 

Who round the yellow cottage played 



7 6 



A DAY AT SYDENHAM. 



[December 



A DAY AT SYDENHAM. 
By Elizabeth Lawrence. 



LITTLE Dora lived in London, and it was quite a 
standing joke in the family, that on her birthday 
there was always sure to be a royal show, or a 
grand flower exhibition, and on this particular eight- 
eenth of June, which made Dora ten years old, the 
Queen was to open the new fountains at the Crystal 
Palace at Sydenham, and papa and mamma and 
Dora were going. 

They started about eleven, Dora, happy soul, in 
the freshest of rose-colored muslins, with cheeks to 
match, and opposite to her, the two whom in all the 
world she loved best. 

As they drove rapidly along, it was easy to see 
the influence of the great fete, in the tide of car- 
riages full of gaily dressed people, all setting in the 
same direction. 

Dora often had been there before, but the Crystal 
Palace always seemed like Fairy-land, and to-day 
it was more beautiful than ever. 

One can hardly make anybody who has never 
seen it understand the charm of the long nave with 
its high arched roof, its graceful galleries, its huge 
marble basins of water-lilies, edged with beds of the 
brightest flowers, its great hanging baskets of deli- 
cate plants, its tropical trees, its statues, its bright 
banners, its delicious music and its glimpses down 
the crossing transepts of one of the loveliest land- 
scapes in all England ; for these transepts, or cross- 
ways, you must know, are walled and roofed with 
glass like all the rest of the building. 

And this is just what you have before your eyes as 
you go in, but to see all the curious and interesting 
things would take weeks. At each side of this 
wonderful nave, or body of the building, there are 
beautiful courts, in which one may see exact copies 
of famous places all over the world. 

For instance, the Pompeian court, where there is 
an exact copy of a house in Pompeii, the city which 
was destroyed by burning lava from Mount Vesuvius 
hundreds of years ago, before Christ was born. You 
can scarcely believe it, I dare say, but it is true. 
And mind, I don't mean the ruins of a house like 
those to be seen to-day in Pompeii, but just as it 
used to be when that city was a busy, active place, 
and Pompeian little folk kept their birthdays and 
played and learned their lessons just as you do now. 

And in another court there is a model of a house 
of ancient Rome, with couches instead of chairs in 
the dining-room, for you know, among other strange 
habits, the old Romans had a way of lying down at 
their meals. 



I dare say you have heard of the Alhambra, the 
famous and beautiful palace built by the Moors in 
Grenada. Well, in this Crystal Palace you may 
see for yourselves just how it looked, and how gor 
geous the Hall of the Abencerrages must have been 
with its wonderful rainbow-colored and gold fret 
work dome filled with a soft lilac light. 

And there are the Egyptian court and the Assy 
rian court and many more besides, and also copies 
of all the most celebrated statues in the world. 

Upstairs, in the galleries, they have all sorts of 
pretty things for sale at different stalls ; books, pho- 
tographs, jewelry and fans and bronzes, beautiful 
glass and china, toys, and games, and dolls, and 
even candy, put up in boxes with pictures of the 
Crystal Palace on the lids. 

You can scarcely imagine a more fascinating 
place to do shopping. Dora was delighted when 
her parents asked her to choose two birthday pres 
ents, in the lovely gallery overlooking the grand 
transept. 

She was a long time making up her mind, but 
at last she decided on a fan with black and gold 
sticks, and a long tassel, and a nice little Russian 
leather writing-case, completely furnished, and with 
a lock and key. Then, with her own pocket-money, 
she bought a doll for the baby at home, and a box 
of barley-sugar fishes, with a picture of the Assyrian 
court on the top, and then they went down stairs 
again to get some luncheon. 

One side of the dining-ioom, at the Crystal Pal- 
ace, is an open verandah, with a view over the 
magnificent grounds of the Palace, and miles and 
miles of the lovely country beyond ; and with such 
a picture before one's eyes, it must be a more 
exacting person than any of our party who would 
not forgive a slight toughness in the cold chicken 
and a want of flavor in the salad. 

After lunch they went out into the grounds, and 
it was not too soon, for with one accord all the 
people began pouring out of the building, and the 
good places for seeing the great sight of the day 
were very soon filled. Our three found a charming , 
little grassy knoll close to the broad gravel walk 
that encircles the large fountains, and there they 
established themselves most comfortably in the 
shade of a clump of rhododendrons, knowing that 
the royal party would drive along the walk just be- 
fore them, and they could not possibly have had 
a better place to see all that would happen. 

The grounds looked perfectly lovely on this fair 






873-] 



A DAY AT SYDENHAM. 



77 



une afternoon, with the bright masses of flowers 
f all kinds set into the velvety green turf; and the 
right dresses of the ladies grouped about on the 
rass added to the beauty of the scene. The rho- 
odendrons were at their height, and the polished 
ark green leaves were thickly sprinkled with large 
lusters of the delicate azalea-like flowers, in pink 
' ad crimson, and lilac and white. 
And now I must explain that, for years, there 
ad been a number of extremely fine fountains in 
ont of the palace, which played every afternoon, 
ut it had taken a long time to finish the grand 
;ries of water-works, which was to include, besides 
te first fountains, a number of very much higher 
ts, as well as others, in elaborate shapes, and 
ume beautiful cascades, which altogether make, 
believe, the finest set of fountains in the world, 
:cept, perhaps, those in the gardens at Versail- 
5. And now, at last, they were all finished, and 
working order. 

Not a single fountain was playing, even the old 
tes were still waiting, like their new sisters, for the 
ueen to come. 

Punctually at four o'clock, the people in the gar- 
ns saw the royal standard unfurled from the large 
g-staff on the palace, and heard the bands play- 
% "God Save the Queen," and then they knew 
at her Majesty had arrived and gone into the 
Hiding, and presently the royal party came out 
jl the garden side, and got into the pony carriages 
at were waiting — they being, by the by, the only 
[ rsons who are allowed to drive in the grounds. 
As the Queen came in sight, she was greeted by 
eers and waving hats and handkerchiefs, and 
:w, as if her Majesty had carried a magic wand, 



just at the very instant when she passed each foun- 
tain, it burst through its waiting stillness and 
leaped forth in loyal welcome, its spire of snowy 
foam mounting joyously towards the blue summer 
sky. 

Down poured the cascades as she passed them ; 
the broad, short fountains spread out their swan- 
like plumage, as their royal mistress went by, 
and in less time than it takes me to write this, the 
whole ceremony was over, and the air full of the 
musical sound of falling waters. 

The Queen looked very good-natured and pleased, 
as she bowed and smiled to everybody, and talked 
to Sir Joseph Paxton, who rode, hat in hand, beside 
her carriage. She wore a blue silk dress (the 
shadow of widow's mourning had not fallen upon 
her then) and the sunlight lit up her hair and 
touched it with gold. The Prince Consort sat 
beside her, looking good and noble as he always 
did, and the Princess Royal was there, with the 
Crown Prince of Prussia, to whom she was married 
very soon after, and there were also several other 
foreign princes with long German titles, which I 
shall not trouble you to pronounce. The great 
people only stayed a little while, and after they 
were gone, our party lingered an hour or two in 
the gardens, enjoying the music of the Coldstream 
Band, and then they went inside to get Dora's 
parcels, which had been left in charge of the woman 
at the confectionery stall. By this time it was get- 
ting late, and they made their way, at last, through 
the crowd at the entrance, and got into the carriage, 
and drove home through the slanting sunshine and 
lengthening shadows at the close of the long, bright, 
summer day. 



: 




OLD SIMON. 

OLD Simon and his boys were glad 

To take the plainest fare ; 
They brightened everything they had, 

With gratitude and prayer. 

'Give thanks," said Simon, "when ye rise,. 

Give thanks when day is done." 
And none than Simon were more wise, 
Or happy, under the sun. 



78 



M AKING A LIBRARY. 



[Decembe; 



MAKING A LIBRARY. 

By John Lewees. 

Little Charlotte determined to have a lrbrary were nothing but pasteboard boxes made lik> 

all her own. She had some books, — nice little . books, and with the names printed in gold letter 

books, with big, fat letters, and the lines ever so on the backs. 

far apart, — but these did not suit her. She wanted Charlotte's uncle was an uneducated man, whc 

grown-up books, such as stood on the shelves of had suddenly become rich. He wanted his hous' 

her uncle Harry's library. , to have a fine library in it ; but as he did not care 

Charlotte and her mother were on a visit to this for reading, or for spending a great deal of mone 







-uncle Harry, and the little girl, who was delighted 
with the great, fine house, — much handsomer than 
any she had ever seen before, — was particularly 
pleased with the library. She had a strong love 
for pictures, and when she found this large room 
with well-filled book shelves, from the floor to the 
ceiling, and seldom any one there to interfere with 
her, she thought she should live in a picture para- 
dise. 

But it was not long before she made a wonderful 
discovery. As the books on the lower shelves were 
mostly of a character uninteresting to her, she 
climbed to the upper shelves, and soon found that 
the books up there were not real ones. They 



on books that would be of no use to him, he had 
these mock books made, and they looked just asi 
well on the upper shelves as real ones. 

After a while, Charlotte became quite accustomed 
to these books; and, as some of them were open' 
at the bottom, she used them for boxes in which to 
put her little treasures. She generally kept her 
second-best tea-set in a large volume on China and 
Japan, and her doll, Jane, who had lost her head 
and her right arm, was stowed away for a good 
long nap in Baxter's Saints' Rest. 

So, one day, when Miss Charlotte was playing 
house down-stairs, and wanted a library of her own, 
there seemed no reason why she should not make 



73-1 



FISH- HAWKS AND THEIR NESTS. 



79 



it of these fine, big books, which she could handle 
;o easily. In fact, they were so light that she could 
ake an armful of them that would have been too 
much for a man had the books been real. 

There is no knowing how large this library of 
Charlotte's would have grown — for she could readily 
:limb from shelf to shelf of the library and throw 
lown the books — had not a little accident occurred. 
iVhile passing, with a great pile of books in her 
,irms, the cradle in which the baby was asleep, 
Charlotte let the books slip a little, and over they 
vent, bang ! upon the cradle. If they had been 
eal books the baby would have been killed. But, 



as it was, some of the larger books fell on the sides 
of the cradle, and they were all so light that no in- 
jury was done, except that the baby woke up sud- 
denly, and commenced to cry his very loudest. 

Charlotte's mother and a lady visitor came run- 
ning up-stairs, and a stop was soon put to the library- 
making. But the worst of all was it now became 
known what sort of a library Uncle Harry had. 

It was well for Charlotte that it was only her 
uncle who had a library just for show. Of course, 
it is bad enough to have an uncle of that kind, but 
it would be ever so much worse to have a father who 
would do such things. 



A CLOUD-PICTURE. 



By H.. H. C. 



I HAD a vision one eve at sea, 

In the clouds as they unrolled, 
When the kingly sun waa falling asleep 

On his royal couch of gold. 
' Many shimmering pictures 

I saw among the clouds, 
And troops of laughing children 

Came dancing along in crowds. 



And just in the midst of the glory, 

In the brightest, sunniest place, 
I saw four cherub boatmen 

Pulling a fairy race. 
Dimpled and white and airv. 

Pulling with baby glee, 
Their little craft a fairy, 

Afloat on a golden sea. 



They rowed their boat with sturdy might 

Into a cloud and out of sight, 
And then I knew the race was won, 

And their goal was the far-off setting sun. 



FISH-HAWKS AND THEIR NESTS. 
By M. D. Ruff. 



I SPENT the summer at a little fishing hamlet, on 
e New Jersey coast, and of all the strange and in- 
resting things I saw there, nothing was stranger or 
Lore interesting than these birds of which I want 
tell you. In poetry and science they are always 
Jlled "ospreys." That may be a prettier word — 
;t fish-hawks is the better name ; it is the one 
.rich has been given by all fishermen on our 
ast, and it is more descriptive of the birds and 
.eir habits. 

A broad shallow river, which was only the sea 
shing back into the land, ran just in the rear of 
r boarding-house, and there, all day long, we 
.uld watch the fish-hawks circling above or 
.ooping down from great heights, or diving head- 
lag into the water, or sitting solemn and grave 



upon their nests. As soon as you come within 
sound of the ocean, you may see these large pouch- 
shaped nests wedged between the bare forks of 
the pine, oak and other strong trees, sometimes 
ten, sometimes fifty feet above the ground. They 
are placed, without any attempt at concealment, in 
the open fields, or close to the fishers' houses, or 
along the river-banks perhaps a mile inland; and 
they form a wonderfully picturesque feature in the 
landscape. They are built of large sticks three 
and four feet long, mixed in with corn-stalks, sea- 
weed, and mullein stalks, piled up four or five feet 
in a solid mass, and lined with sea-weed. They 
are not hollow like a pouch, as you might judge 
from the outside, but are nearly flat on top, and 
about as deep as a dinner plate. 



8o 



FISH-HAWKS AND THEIR NESTS. 



[ December, 



Of course they are very heavy, and the weight, 
together with the mass of wet stuff, saps the vitality 
from the tree in a few years, and it gets bare and 
ragged like the one you see in the picture. 

This great weight is very necessary, however, for 
it enables the nests to resist the storms and high 
winds which sweep over our eastern shore. And 
strength is what is mainly needed, for the fish- 
hawk builds its nest as we do our houses, to last a 
great many years. 

Ask any one of the old fishermen about them, 
and he will probably say first : 

"Wall, they're a curus fowl. No matter what 
the weather may be, they come back on the 21st of 
March of each year, all at once; and the 21st of 
September you can't see one. They go over-night 
and no man from Maine to Georgia can tell where 
they go to." 

They say, too, that the same birds come back 
to the same nest every year. If it has been injured 
by the winter's storms it is carefully repaired ; some- 
times even rebuilt entirely in the same place with 
the same material. One morning in the early 
spring I passed the ruins of a large nest which had 
been blown down by the wind of the night before. 
It was a great mass of stuff, scattered all around, 
and would have filled a good-sized cart. The 
homeless birds were flying about in great distress, 
flapping their wings, and uttering their peculiar, 
shrill note — a note that is in strange harmony with 
the melancholy sea. In a week I passed again and 
the ground was cleared of the wreck and the nest 
loomed up large as ever in the tree from which h 
had been blown. There is no doubt that many of 
the nests are very old. In the field through which 
we walked on our way to the beach, was a nest 
which I was assured was a hundred years old ; "As 
old as them cedar rails on that fence, yonder," said 
the man ; " my grandfather told me so." I believed 
it then, of course, for one's grandfather always 
speaks the truth. 

You will suppose that a bird which builds such a 
large nest must lay large eggs and many of them, 
but this bird never lays more than three, and they 
are little larger than a hen's egg, of a reddish 
yellow, splotched with brown. They are laid about 
the first of May, and it takes a long and patient sit- 
ting till the last of June to hatch them. During this 
time and after the young birds come, the care of 
the parents is unceasing. The nest is never left 
unguarded. The male bird goes fishing and keeps 
his family well supplied with food, while the female 
rarely leaves her nest, but keeps over it a tireless 
watch. If any one approaches she cries shrilly and 
hovers over her brood, with her broad wings out- 
spread and her piercing eyes flashing. Peaceable 
and gentle at other times, she will defend her nest 



with claws and beak against the enemy or too 
curious intruder. 

The young fish-hawks are the funniest things 
you ever saw, awkward and misshapen, and yet 
with such a wise, dignified expression ! I watched 
for several hours a couple learning to fly. They 
sat balanced uneasily on the edge of the nest, 
solemn and grave as judges, and looked as if they 
had come out of the shell knowing everything. 
The old birds were coaxing and going through 
various exercises which I suppose were the first 
principles of flying, and the young ones tilted 
about and rolled over and finally got fastened 
between the sharp branches of the tree. The 
mother and father fussed and scolded, " Bill-ee, 
Bill-ee, Stu-pid-i-ty. " The young are very slow in 
learning to fly — and I have heard that they often 
linger in the nest long after they are well able to help 
themselves, to be fed and waited upon, till driven 
away by the parents, who beat them out with their 
wings, and peck them with their sharp beaks. I 
don't like to think this, but it may be so, for one 
day we found a young bird drooping on the fence. 
He allowed us to come very close to him, and we 
discovered that his wing was broken. It was not 
shot, so he must have fallen in his effort to fly. No 
birds were near him, he had evidently been desert- 
ed. He looked forlorn and pitiful, so we took him 
home and put him in the wagon-house. The 
children were very attentive to him ; they cut up 
fish for him — pounds of it, — and tried to amuse him 
as if he were a lamed child. But it was of no use, 
he drooped still more, and then died and was 
buried with martial noise and pomp. He would 
not have been a successful pet, for these birds have a 
lonely, isolated nature. They seem to have bred in 
them the wild, untamable spirit of the wind and 
wave, and if deprived of their free, soaring flight, 
and their sportings in air and water, they will 
languish and die. 

The largest fish-hawk I ever saw measured six 
feet across the wings. The average size is from 
four to five feet. The plumage is of greyish brown 
except on the breast and under part of the wings, 
where it is pure white. The beak is sharp and 
hooked, the claws long, and the legs very thick. 
The feet and legs are covered with close hard scales, 
the better to retain a hold upon the slippery fish. 
It used to be a common notion among the older 
naturalists that one foot of this bird was webbed 
and the other furnished with claws to serve the 
double purpose of swimming and seizing its 
prey. 

Nothing can be finer than the sweep and direct- 
ness of the fish-hawk's flight. You see one sailing, 
a mere speck in the sky ; he stops suddenly, as if 
viewing some object in the water below ; poised 



iS 73 - 



FISH-HAWKS AND THEIR NESTS. 



Si 



high in the air, without any visible motion of the 
wide-extended wings, he swoops down with the 
•swiftness of lightning and plunges into the water 
head foremost. If he misses the fish he rises again, 
and circles round in short, abrupt curves, as if from 
mere listlessness. Again he pauses, darts into the 
-water, and this time comes up with his prey in his 
talons. He shakes the water from his feathers and 
flies in the shortest line to his nest. Sometimes his 
fish weighs six or seven pounds. Add to this the 
struggles of the fish to free itself, and you may fancy 
the strength of the bird. I have heard, but I never 
saw an instance of it, that the fish is sometimes 
strong enough to drag the bird into the water, where 
he is drowned. The next tide carries him up on 
the beach with his claws buried deep in a sturgeon 
or halibut. 

By some naturalists the fish-hawk has been classed 
with the eagle, from a similarity of appearance, but 
this is not just to our friend. He is much nobler 




in all his traits than any of the eagle species. His 
only prey is fish, so I can tell you no wonderful 
stories of children, or even of lambs, carried off- by 
him to feed a ravenous brood. He never interferes 
with smaller birds, as the eagle does. On the con- 
trary, a little timid bird called the crow black-bird 
builds its modest nest in the interstices of the hawk's 
nest. I have seen a half-dozen of these tiny homes 
built into the larger one. He is not a greedy rob- 
ber, like the eagle, but fishes in an honest, straight- 
forward manner, and, in short, has but one enemy, 
— the bald eagle. 

Between them there are many desperate battles. 
The eagle, who is always hungry, and who seldom 
works when he can steal, waits till the fish-hawk 
catches a fish. As he comes from the water with 
the heavy burden, the eagle pounces upon the 
booty. They rise together, and in mid-air the con- 
test goes on with beak and talon. I am sorry to 
say the eagle generally gets the best of it, and flies 
off sullenly to the nearest tree with 
his prize to devour it. Often the 
fish drops, but there is no escape 
for it, for the eagle adroitly catches 
it as it falls. The fish-hawk wisely 
goes fishing again right off, for he 
never condescends to re-seize his 
prey. The farmers have an idea 
that the depredations of the eagle 
among the sheep and poultry are 
much lessened by the hostility of the 
fish-hawk. On this account they 
have great respect for it, and I think 
they would not kill one upon any 
consideration. A fine is said to be 
attached to shooting any of these 
kindly birds; but I never heard 
of its being exacted; it is probably 
meant as a warning to stranger- 
sportsmen, who shoot wantonly any- 
thing which flies. 

The coastmen all speak of the 



82 



BOW WOW -CURLY CUR AND THE WOODEN LEG. 



[December, 



fish-hawk with a curious affection. He foretells a 
storm, they say, by a peculiar restlessness, and a 
repetition of his feeble whistle. When the storm 
breaks the birds are abroad in the face of it, however 
wild and fierce it may be. If one can see anything 
through the blinding mists and rain, it is the fish- 
hawk soaring aloft in the tumult, curving and sweep- 
ing on the wild wind, his white breast gleaming 
against the black trees and sky. These birds show 
great skill in flying against the wind, never fly 
directly into it, but tack backwards and forwards 
as intelligently as a sailor does upon the water. 



The fishermen think that a nest built near their 
houses ensures them good luck and prosperous 
living. The return of the bird heralds the coming 
of spring, and the happy activity of the fishing 
season. The wintry storms are over, the warm sun 
shines again upon the white sand and breaking 
waves, and children are playing on the shore. The 
nets are brought out and mended, the boats are 
launched, and the men who have lounged all winter 
in the house, gather in groups of two and three, 
with seines and hooks and lines, to catch the fish 
which come in shoals up the river from the sea. 



BOWWOW-CURLYCUR AND THE WOODEN LEG. 
By Margaret Eytinge. 



The boy and the girl — no, that's impolite, 1 
meant to say the girl and the boy, stood at the 
garden gate, looking up the road. 

Bowwow-Curlycur, with his hair done up in curl 
papers, was there too, and he also was looking up 
the road. 

To think that the cook had taken every stick to 
boil the oatmeal porridge ; and the hoe, and the 
shovel, and the spade, and the rake had all gone 
to a party given by the new mowing-machine. 

Seven nice plants and one young tree, and noth- 
ing to dig little houses in the ground for the roots 
to live in ! 

What on earth were they to do ? Bowwow-Cur- 
lycur would have been willing to have scooped out 
a few holes, but he had an appointment with the 
dog that stole the chickens and didn't want to get 
his nose dirty. 

"What shall we do?" said the boy, " the sun is 
going down behind Troykachunk hill as fast as 
ever he can." 

"Somebody is coming down the road," said the 
girl. "It's a man, and doesn't he walk funny?" 
said the boy. 

" I'll go and see who it is," barked Bowwow-Cur- 
lycur, and he made himself so flat that he looked 
like some queer kind of a giant caterpillar, squeezed 
himself under the gate and ran off up the road. 

Now, Bowwow-Curlycur was a most wonderful 
dog. He could bark so plainly that any one of 
common intelligence who heard him could under- 
stand every word he barked. 

" Who are you ?" he asked, as he danced round 
the stranger. 



(Bowwow-Curlycur danced beautifully, much 
better than the girl or boy could, for you see he 
had four legs and they only had two.) 

The man had common intelligence, so he 
answered, "All right, old fellow." 

Then Bowwow-Curlycur stopped dancing, sniffed 
at him, growled at him, jumped at him, turned 
back, ran to the girl and boy and barked one word, 
but it was in two syllables, so that made it equal to 
two little words. 

" Sailor," barked Bowwow-Curlycur, and sure 
enough as the man came near, the girl and the 
boy saw that he was dressed in a blue striped shirt 
with large turnover collar, blue trousers, a pea- 
jacket, a tarpaulin hat, and a wooden leg. 

" Ship-a-hoy !" shouted the sailor, as soon as he 
spied the girl and boy. "What craft's that?" 

This was his way of saying, " How do you do?" 
and " Who are you ?" 

" Oh ! if you only would," said the girl. " Oh ! 
yes," said the boy, " if you only would lend us 
your wooden leg for a few moments," said the 
girl. 

" Shiver my timbers," said the sailor, and he 
laughed so loud that his hat tumbled off his head 
and fell on the ground where Bowwow-Curlycur 
seized it and bit a large piece out of the brim, 
"What do you want my wooden leg for, young- 
sters ? " 

" Well, you see," said the girl, who was smarter 
than the boy — girls always are smarter than boys — 
" we have some plants and a young tree to set out, 
and the shovel and spade and rake and hoe have 
all gone to the new mowing-machine's party, and 



BOWWOW- CURLYCUR AND THE WOODEN LEG. 



the cook has burned all the sticks, and Bowwow- 
Curlycur wants to keep his nose clean, and so we 
have nothing to make the root-houses with." 

" Won't you lend us your leg for a little while?" 
said the boy. 

" Blessed if I don't," said the sailor, "'but you 
must take me with it, for it's so much attached to 
me, it can't leave me." 

"Oh! no indeed," said the wooden leg, but so 
very softly that no one but Bowwow-Curlycur heard 
it, and he only put his head on one side, lolled out 
his tongue and barked nothing. 

Then the sailor threw his leg that wasn't wooden 
up in the air, spun around three times on the one 
that was wooden, commenced whistling the sailor's 
hornpipe and came into the garden. 

" Here's fun," barked Bowwow-Curlycur, and ran 
round after his own tail like mad. 

So they formed a procession. The sailor went 
first and stamped in the ground with his wooden 
leg — the boy came next and put a plant in the 
hole thus made — the girl followed with the young 
tree in her arms. Bowwow-Curlycur earned his 
ears and curl papers. The cat that made faces 
with her tail came after, with her four youngest 
kittens. 

At last all the plants were set out and only the 
young tree remained. 

"Now," said the sailor, "I must make a deep 
hole for this," and he raised his wooden leg and 
brought it down with such force that he buried it 
in the ground up to the knee, and oh ! mercy's 
sakes alive ! it wouldn't come out again. 

The sailor tugged and pulled, and pulled and 
tugged, and the girl and boy pulled and tugged, 



and tugged and pulled, and Bowwow-Curlycur 
scolded and bit the leg that wasn't wooden, but all 
was of no use. 

At last the sailor threw up his arms in the air, 
gave a great jerk, and away he flew straight up to- 
wards the sky, like a rocket, leaving his wooden 
leg behind him. 

"Jolly!" said the boy, "what larks!" and the 
girl said, " Oh, my !" 

Bowwow-Curlycur, for once in his life, was too 
astonished to bark anything. 

The cat made a dreadful face with her tail, and 
walked solemnly off, her kittens marching behind 
her. 

So the moon came out ana tne girl and boy 
knew it was bed-time, and they went to bed. 

But about twelve o'clock at night, when every- 
thing was still except the frogs, and the crickets, 
and the katy-dids, and a few other things of that 
kind that stay up all night so that they can see 
the sun rise in the morning, they heard a strange 
tramp, tramp, tramp, in the garden, and getting 
up and peeping out of the window they saw the 
wooden leg hopping down the walk, and as it 
passed them it said with a chuckle, " How cleverly 
I got rid of that sailor. Now I'll go and see the 
world by myself," and it went out of the gate and 
up the road and they never saw it again. 

But looking up at the moon they beheld the face 
of the sailor wearing a broad grin. 

As for Bowwow-Curlycur, after he had taken his 
hair out of paper and called on the dog that stole 
the chickens, he buried (in the hole left by the 
wooden leg he had saved), a few choice bones and 
then slept the sleep of the just dog. 




THERE was a good boy who fell ill, 
And begged them to give him a pill : 
"For my kind parents' sake 
The dose I will take," 
Said this dear little boy who fell ill. 



What was the moon a-spying 
Out of her half-shut eye ? 

One of her stars went flying 
Across the broad blue sky. 



8 4 



WOOD-CARVING. 



[December, 



WOOD-CARVING. 
By George A. Sawyer. 



A FEW years since, while recovering from an ill- 
ness, I made my first attempt at wood-carving ; 
and, as I gradually overcame its difficulties, I be- 
came very much interested, and began to make 
many pretty and useful things, such as boxes, 
brackets, shelves, picture-frames and clock-cases. 
As some of our boys and girls may take an interest 
in wood-carving, I will give them a few hints on 
the subject. 

WHERE TO OBTAIN MATERIAL. 

In all the larger cities there are mills where they 
saw veneers and thin boards for the use of cabinet 
or furniture-makers, and if you are so fortunate as 
to have access to them, you will find it very easy to 
supply yourself with materials ; in fact, the greatest 
difficulty is not to get too much ; a little goes a 
great way, you will find, if you do very nice work. 
There are, however, in almost all large towns, 
model-makers, cabinet-makers, etc., from whom 
you can obtain some of the commoner woods ; or if 
there is a saw-mill where they have a circular saw, 
you can have some thick wood cut up to suit at 
trifling expense. Even when these fail, you can 
get a carpenter to saw and plane you a few small 
strips ; and there is in every town, even the small- 
est, a tobacco store, where you can get empty cigar 
boxes. These generally are made of Spanish cedar, 
and by selecting some of the finest grained speci- 
mens, you sometimes can get extremely pretty 
pieces. Articles made from this wood, when polish- 
ed and shellaced, would never be suspected of 
coming from a cigar box. You cannot, however, 
do much carving on it, because the grain is coarse 
and the wood wanting in strength. 

KIND OF WOOD. 
The best woods for our use are walnut and white 
holly, sawed in thin boards, not more than a 
fourth or a sixteenth of an inch in thickness, and 
planed on both sides. Walnut is, of course, known 
to every one as the dark wood most generally used 
in this country for the better kinds of furniture. 
Though white holly is very common also, or at 
least has been rapidly becoming so within the 
last few years, you may not know, that it is the 
"white-wood" generally used for small brackets, 
card photograph frames, etc., found in the shops. 
It possesses in the finer strains a beautifully fine 
texture, even color, and is so strong that it may be 
sawed, if ca'refully handled, in the thinnest lines 
across the grain with little danger of breaking. 



White holly is by far the best wood for a be- 
ginner ; indeed, it is the best for any fine carved 
work, and designs done in it, and glued on to some 
dark wood like walnut or rosewood, make a very 
handsome contrast. 

THE TOOLS REQUIRED. 
Tools are, of course, an important item in every 
workman's calculations, and there are those par- 
ticularly suited to the kind of work I am about to 
describe. I shall mention at present only those 
which I think most important for a beginner, that 




BRAD-AWLS, ETC., WITH HOLLOW HANDLE. 

you may not incur useless expenditure of money, 
and yet be sufficiently provided not to get discour- 
aged for the want of the right tools to make a reason- 
ably fair piece of work. As you gain in experience, 
you will be able to make additions for yourselves. 
A pocket knife is of the first importance, and it 
is hardly to be presumed that any real boy is with- 
out that useful article. For our purpose, one hav- 
ing two blades, a large and a small one, such as can 
be purchased of sufficiently good quality for about 
seventy-five cents, more or less, will answer very 
well. Having a knife, every boy should possess 
the means of sharpening and keeping it in 
order. For this, and for sharpening other edged 
tools, the best instrument is an oil-stone, such as 



I873-: 



WOOD-CARVING. 



85 



you will always find on carpenters' benches, fitted 
into a wooden box with a detachable lid. A useful 
size is about three inches long by two wide, and 
half an inch thick. We should make the box our- 
selves (1 will tell you how by and by), and it both 
protects the stone from the chance of breakage, 
and keeps the oil from soiling other things. A 
stone of this kind will cost ten or fifteen cents, and 
wear for ever : that is, so long as we use it properly, 
and are likely to want it. 

Perhaps the next most generally useful arti- 
cle is a case of brad-awls. There are several 
kinds for sale at tool stores, some with larger tools 
than those in the illustration ; but these are the 
handiest, as well as cheapest. The price is about 
a dollar and a quarter. As will be seen from 
the figure (in which, however, only a few of the 
tools are given) this set includes a number of brads 
of various sizes, for boring holes ; a screw-driver, 
several chisels, and a gauge, a countersink, scratch- 
awl, etc., and a wrench with which to fasten 
them into the handle, which is hollow and holds 
them all when not in use. As these tools never 
come sharpened ready for use, it is a good plan to 
take them to some carpenter's shop, and watch the 
carpenter when he puts them on his oil-stone, and 
accomplishes the desired object of giving them an 
edge. You would learn more by seeing the sharp- 
ening once done than by reading pages of descrip- 
tion. So watch the carpenter. 

We next want some files : a flat one, half an inch 
wide ; one flat on one side and round on the 
other, a fourth or three-eighths of an inch wide ; a 
round one three-eighths, and five or six like the one 
figured, made of one-eighth inch steel wire ; one 
round; one half round and half flat ; one triangular; 
one square; one flat; one knife-edge. Some of 
these have two inches of the round wire left to 
serve as a handle, and are necessary in finishing 
fine work. The lot may cost a dollar or more. 



THE SAW. 



For a long time I used only these tools men- 
tioned, but one day a friend gave me what I believe 
is known as a dentist's saw. I give a figure of it. 
The tool itself costs a dollar and a quarter, and the 
saws come in packages of a dozen, at twenty-five 
cents. They are extremely fine and delicate, but 
do most excellent work. With care, a dozen will 




last a year. Lastly we want some sheets of 
sand-paper, assorted, fine and coarse. 

Having provided ourselves with these tools 
and a few pieces of some kind of thin wood, 
we will see what we can produce. Suppose 
for a first effort we make a common ruler, 
such as we would be likely to find useful at 
school ; say an inch wide, and twelve or fif- 
teen inches long. 

HOW TO MAKE A RULER. 

Take one of our pieces of board, white 
holly if you have it, and cut the edges as 
true and straight as you can, then lay a 
whole sheet of rather fine sandpaper. No. 1, 
jjj is the best, on a perfectly flat surface, like 
U| the top of an uncovered table or box, and rub 
the edge of the wood to and fro, length-wise, 
till the edge is entirely smooth and straight. 
If you will hold this stick nearly horizontally 
and turned towards the light, one end oppo- 
site one eye and five or six inches from it, 
and closing the other eye look along the 
edge, you can see very plainly whether the 
edge is true or not. 

Having made one edge straight, carefully 

measure off from it, at two or three points, the 

width you design making the ruler. You can 

do this quite well enough with a card or piece 

of stiff paper ; and laying down a ruler, use it 

as an edge to cut through the wood with the 

point of a sharp knife. In thin wood this is 

FII . E . very easy to do, and it makes a much cleaner 

job than sawing. Then smooth the edge as you 

did the other, being careful to keep the two edges 

parallel that the ruler may be of the same width. 

Cut off the ends square. If you have a carpen- 
ter's square, you will find it useful ; but I think, for 
the present, we can do without it, and use a good- 
sized visiting card, which, being cut by machinery, 
we may assume, has edges at two right angles. 
If you are far enough along in your geometry to be 
able to construct mathematically a right angled tri- 
angle, you can verify the angles of your card, and 
you will find great pleasure in applying your knowl- 
edge to such every-day uses ; but if not, we will 
use the card for the present, just as we find it. Set 
one corner of the card at the point where you are 
to cut : make one edge coincide with, or be exactly 
even with, the edge of the ruler, and cut across the 
end by the other edge. 

In cutting thin wood with the grain, or length- 
wise, you will find that you can do it best by lay- 
ing down a ruler and drawing along its edge, with 
the point of a sharp knife, just as you would rule a 
line with a pencil, only, of course, holding the 
knife so as to be able to bear on it and force it 



86 



M I E U X VAUT AVOIR LA MOITIE DUN PAIK 



[December, 



into the wood, taking care to hold it perpendicu- 
lar so as to cut as straight through as possible. In 
cutting across the grain you can do it either in the 
same manner, or else mark a line with the point of 
the knife, and then use the saw; the back of the saw, 
however, will allow you to cut only narrow strips. 

ORNAMENTATION. 

Having now a long, narrow piece of wood, with 
straight even edges and square ends, we may ven- 
ture upon a little ornamentation. 

I select, as the most appropriate for a first effort, 
a geometrical design ; that is, one with straight 
lines, which can be drawn with a ruler and com- 
passes. Designs composed of flowers or natural 
objects, with ever-varying curves, which must be 
drawn by hand, are much more attractive, but are 
more difficult, and must be reserved till we have 
had a little practice. 

I would recommend your taking a sheet of large 
writing or other paper, and drawing upon it a pat- 
tern just the size of the ruler you wish to make. 
Mark out within it the lines, as you intend cutting 
them in the wood. Mistakes with the pencil are 
easily corrected, and if you get the pattern exact, 
you can, by measuring the points, transfer it to the 



by pencil lines. Having the pattern nicely and 
accurately drawn, take one of your drills and care- 
fully bore holes through all the spaces you in- 
tend cutting out, — one hole in each space. Take 
your saw and unfasten one end. and put that end 
through the first hole. Fasten it again. Lay the 
piece of wood on the edge of a table or large 
box, the part you are" about to saw just over the 
edge, so that the saw will not cut the table, and hold 
the wood down firmly with one hand while with the 
other you use the saw, holding it so that the cut 
will be perpendicular. In this way saw around the 
piece to come out, following the pencil lines as 
nearly as possible. You will find, with a little- 
practice, that you can cut almost exactly on the 
line ; but for the present it is safest to keep a very 
little inside the line, and cut away the surplus after- 
wards with a file. In setting the end of the saw 
back again into the jaws, if you put the end of the 
saw-bow against a table and press on it slightly, and 
then fasten the end of the saw in, the saw will be 
strained tight and will work better than if put in 
loosely. Cut out all the spaces in succession in the 
same way, and then take your files and file up to 
the lines. In this design you will find use for your 
square, three-cornered, and flat files. After filing 




PATTERN FOR A RULER. 



wood. You may cut out the design carefully with 
scissors and knife, and then laying it on the wood, 
mark its edges with a sharp-pointed pencil, or you 
may lay it over the wood and prick through with a 
pin or needle, and afterwards connect the pin points 



carefully up to the lines, take fine sandpaper and 
rub it all over smooth and white, and your ruler will 
be complete. I think you will take a satisfaction 
in using it yourself or in giving it to some friend, 
which you would not feel if you had bought it. 



MIEUX VAUT AVOIR LA MOITIE D'UN PAIN QUE NE 

PAS AVOIR DE PAIN. 



Par M. M. D. 



Peu de jeunes personnes connaissent l'origine de 
ce fameux proverbe. 

En l'an onze cent onze, la grande duchesse 
Caroline van Swing et ses quatre charmants enfants 
s'etaient reunis dans la vaste cuisine du chateau 
pour prendre leur simple dejeuner. Dans ces 
premiers temps le lait condense n'etait pas connu, 



de sorte que les pauvres nobles enfants etaient 
obliges de prendre du lait ordinaire; mais ils avaient 
du pain condense et c'etait pour eux une grande 
satisfaction. 

La grande duchesse elle-meme se mit en devoir 
de preparer le repas, car, disait-elle avec des larmes 
d'attendrissement, "je su^s une duchesse, mais ne 



i8;3-l 



QUE NE PAS AVOIR DE PAIN, 



87 



suis-je pas aussi une mere ? " A ces paroles les voix 
de ses petits enfants, presses par la faim, repon- 
daient le plus eloquemment du monde. 

La noble dame prit un pain et saisissant le grand 
couteau avec lequel son noble grand sire avait ter- 
rasse une centaine d'ennemis, elle le brandit un 



bouchees les deux moities du pain. Le chien revint 
a la maison humble et repentant. "II ne derobera 
plus rien," s'ecria la grande duchesse, en regardant 
avec amour ses enfants qui pleuraient. " Pourquoi 
pleurez-vous, mes cheris? Mais si j'avais garde 
dans mes mains la moitie du pain, je n'aurais pu 




LA MOITIK D UN PAIN. 



instant, puis, d'un coup ferme et resolu, elle coupa 
en deux le pain condense a la maniere de toutes les 
nobles duchesses. Aussitot que le couteau eut fait 
son ceuvre, une moitie du pain tomba sur le sol 
avec un bruit sec. Le chien de la famille, qui n'a- 
vait pas quitte des yeux les mouvements de la du- 
chesse, bondit en avant de son coin du grand foyer. 
Saisissant le pain entre ses machoires, il s'enfuit de 
la salle emportant son butin au milieu des cris et 
des appels plaintifs des chers enfants. 

La noble mere, craignant de perdre la moitie de 
son pain, s'elanca aussitot vers la porte et jeta la 
moitie du pain qui lui restait sur le mechant animal. 

Atteint a la tete, le chien lacha le morceau et se 
mit a pousser des aboiements plaintifs. Pendant ce 
temDS un arte, etant venu a passer, avala en deux 



chatier Athelponto. Consolez-vous. Ne voyez-vous 
pas qu'il vaut mieux avoir la moitie d'un pain que 
ne pas avoir de pain ? " 

"Oh oui, mere !" repondirent ces nobles enfants, 
prets a s'en aller sans prendre leur dejeuner, depuis 
qu'Athelponto avait ete puni de sa mauvaise faute. 

Helas ! quel garcon ou quelle fille de ce temps 
ferait ainsi le sacrifice du confort au principe ? 

Le dicton de la grande duchesse a ete transmis 
de generation en generation, mais la signification 
en a change. Quand les meres d'aujourd'hui 
veulent apprendre a leurs enfants a se contenter dc 
peu, elles disent: "Mieux vaut avoir la moitie 
d'un pain que ne pas avoir de pain." 

Le monde n'est pas aussi heroique qu'il l'etait du 
temps de la grande duchesse Caroline van Swing. 



(Our renders who are studying French may find some amusement, as well as profit, in translating the above story. We shall be glad 
to have the boys and girls send in their translations.) 



88 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



[Dbcember.. 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 

By Frank R. Stockton. 



Chapter IV. 

KATE, VERY NATURALLY, IS ANXIOUS. 

Kate hurried through the woods, for she was 
afraid she would not reach home until after dark, 
and indeed it was then quite like twilight in the 
shade of the great trees around her. The road on 
which she was walking was, however, clear and 
open and she was certain she knew the way. As 
she hastened on, she could not help feeling that 
she was wasting this delightful walk through the 
woods. Her old friends were around her, and 
though she knew them all so well, she could not 
stop to spend any time with them. There were 
the oaks, — the black oak with its shining many- 
pointed leaves, the white oak with its lighter green 
though duller hued foliage, and the chestnut oak 
with its long and thickly clustered leaves. Then 
there were the sweet gums, fragrant and star- 
leaved, and the black-gum, tough, dark, and un- 
pretending. No little girl in the county knew 
more about the trees of her native place than 
Kate ; for she had made good use of her long 
rides through the country with her father. Here 
were the chinquepin bushes, like miniature chest- 
nut trees, and here were the beautiful poplars. 
She knew them by their bright leaves which looked 
as though they had been snipped off at the top 
with a pair of scissors. And here, right in front of 
her, was Uncle Braddock. She knew him by his 
many-colored dressing-gown, without which he 
never appeared in public. It was one of the most 
curious dressing-gowns ever seen, as Uncle Braddock 
was one of the most curious old colored men ever 
seen. The gown was not really as old as its wearer, 
but it looked older. It was composed of about a 
hundred pieces of different colors and patterns — 
red, green, blue, yellow and brown ; striped, spot- 
ted, plain, and figured with flowers and vines. 
These pieces, from year to year, had been put on 
as patches, and some of them were quilted on, 
and some were sewed, and some were pinned. 
The gown was very long and came down to Uncle 
Braddock's heels, which were also very long and 
bobbed out under the bottom of the gown as if they 
were trying to kick backwards. But Uncle Brad- 
dock never kicked. He was very old and he had 
all the different kinds of rheumatism, and walked 
bent over nearly at right angles, supporting him- 
self by a long cane like a bean-pole, which he 
grasped in the middle. There was probably no 



particular reason why he should bend over so very 
much, but he seemed to like to walk in that way, 
arid nobody objected. He was a good old soul and 
Kate was delighted to see him. 

"Uncle Braddock!" she cried. 
The old man stopped and turned around, almost 
standing up straight in his astonishment at seeing 
the young girl alone in the woods. 

" Why, Miss Kate ! " he exclaimed, as she came 
up with him, " what in the world is you doin' 
h'yar ? " 

"I've been gathering sumac," said Kate, as 
they walked on together, " and Harry's gone 
off and I couldn't wait any longer and I'm 
just as glad as I can be to see you, Uncle Brad- 
dock, for I was beginning to be afraid, because its 
getting dark so fast, and your dressing-gown look- 
ed prettier to me than all the trees when I first 
caught sight of it. But I think you ought to have 
it washed, Uncle Braddock." 

"Wash him!" said Uncle Braddock, with a 
chuckle, as if the suggestion was a very funny joke ; 
' ' dat wouldn't do, no how. He'd wash all to bits 
and the pins would stick 'em in the hands. 
Couldn't wash him, Miss Kate ; it's too late for 
dat now. Might have washed him before de war, 
p'raps. We was stronger, den. But what you 
getherin sumac for, Miss Kate ? If you white folks 
goes pickin' it all, there won't be none lef soon fur 
de' cull'ed people, dat's mighty certain." 

" Why, I'm picking it for the colored people," 
said Kate, " at least for one colored person." 

'' Why don't you let 'em pick it the'rselves ? " 
asked the old man. 

" Because Aunt Matilda can't do it," said Kate. 

"Is dat sumac fur Aunt Matilda ?" said Uncle 
Braddock. 

"Yes, it is," said Kate, "and Harry's been gather- 
ing some and we're going to pick enough to get 
her all she wants. Harry and I intend to take care 
of her now. You know 'they were going to send 
her to the almshouse." 

" Well, I declar ! " exclaimed the old man. "I 
neber did hear de like o' dat afore. Why, you all 
isn't done bein' tuk care of you'selves." Kate 
laughed, and explained their plans, getting quite 
enthusiastic about it. 

" Lem me carry dat bag," said Uncle Braddock. 
"Oh no ! " said Kate, ' ' you're too old to be carrying 
bags." 

" Jis lein me hab it," said he, " it's trouble enuf 



iS-j. 1 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



8 9 



fur me to get along, anyway, and a bag or two 
don't make no kind o' dif'rence." 

Kate found herself obliged to consent, and as 
the bag was beginning to feel very heavy for her, 
and as it didn't seem to make the slightest differ- 
ence, as he had said, to Uncle Braddock, she was 
very glad to be rid of it. 

But when at last they reached the village, and 
Uncle Braddock went over the fields to his cabin, 
Kate ran into the house, carrying her bag with 
ease, for she was excited by the hope that Harry 
had come home by some shorter way, and that 
she should find him in the house. 

But there was no Harry there. And soon it was 
night, and yet he did not come. 



full of sumac leaves, and that he and she were pull- 
ing it through the woods, and that the legs caught 
in the trees and they could not get it along, and 
then she woke up. It was bright day-light. But 
Harry had not come ! 

There was no news. Mr. Loudon and his friends 
were still absent. Poor Kate was in despair, and 
could not touch the breakfast, which was prepared 
at the usual hour. 

About nine o'clock a company of negro sumac 
gatherers appeared on the road which passed Mr. 
Loudon's house. It was a curious party. On a 
rude cart, drawn by two little oxen, was a pile of 
bags filled with sumac leaves, which were supported 
by poles stuck around the cart and bound together 




THE SUMAC GATHERERS. 



Matters now looked serious, and about nine 
o'clock Mr. Loudon, with two of the neighbors, 
started out into the woods to look for Aunt Matil- 
da's young guardian. 

Kate's mother was away on a visit to her rela- 
tions in another county, and so the little girl passed 
the night on the sofa in the parlor, with a colored 
woman asleep on the rug before the fire-place. 
Kate would not go to bed. She determined to stay 
awake until Harry should come home. But the 
sofa cushions became more and more pleasant, and 
very soon she was dreaming that Harry had shot a 
giraffe, and had skinned it, and had stuffed the skin 



by ropes. On the top of the pile sat a negro, ply- 
ing a long whip, and shouting to the oxen. Behind 
the cart, and on each side of it, were negroes, men 
and women, carrying huge bales of sumac on their 
heads. Bags, pillow-cases, bed-ticks, sheets and 
coverlids had been called into requisition to hold 
the precious leaves. Here was a woman with a 
great bundle on her head, which sank down so as to 
almost entirely conceal her face ; and near her was 
an old man who supported on his bare head a load 
that looked heavy enough for a horse. Even little 
children carried bundles considerably larger than 
themselves, and all were laughing and talking 



9° 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



[December, 



merrily as they made their way to the village store 
at the cross-roads, 

Kate ran eagerly out to question these people. 
They must certainly have seen Harry. 

The good-natured negroes readily stopped to talk 
with Kate. The ox-driver halted his team, and 
every head-burdened man, woman and child clus- 
tered around her, until it seemed as if sumac clouds 
had spread between her and the sky, and had ob- 
scured the sun. 

But no one had seen Harry. In fact, this com- 
pany, with the accumulated proceeds of a week's 
sumac gathering, had come from a portion of the 
county many miles from Crooked Creek, and, of 
course, they could bring no news to Kate. 

Chapter V. 

THE TURKEY HUNTER. 

When Harry left Kate, he quietly walked by the 
side of Crooked Creek, keeping his eyes fixed on 
the tracks of the strange animal, and his thumb on 
the hammer of the right-hand barrel of his gun. 
Before long the tracks disappeared, and disappear- 
ed, too, directly in front of a hole in the bank ; quite 
a large hole, big enough for a beaver or an otter. 
This was capital luck ! Harry got down on his 
hands and knees and examined the tracks. Sure 
enough, the toes pointed towards the hole. It must 
be in there ! 

Harry cocked his gun and sat and waited. He 
was as still as a dead mouse. There was no earthly 
reason why the creature should not come out, ex- 
cept perhaps that it might not want to come out. 
At any rate, it could not know that Harry was out- 
side waiting for it. 

He waited a long time without ever thinking how 
the day was passing on ; and it began to be a little 
darkish, just a little, before he thought that perhaps 
he had better go back to Kate. 

But it might be just coming out, and what a 
shame to move. A skin that would bring five dollars 
was surely worth waiting for a little while longer, 
and he might never have such another chance. 
He certainly had never had such a one before. 

And so he still sat and waited, and pretty soon 
he heard something. But it was not in the hole, 
— not near him at all. It was further along the 
creek, and sounded like the footsteps of some one 
walking stealthily. 

Harry looked around quickly, and, about thirty- 
yards from him, he saw a man with a gun. The 
man was now standing still, looking steadily at 
him. At least Harry thought he was, but there 
was so little light in the woods by this time that he 
could not be sure about it. What was that man 
after? Could he be watching him? 



Harry was afraid to move. Perhaps the man 
mistook him for some kind of an animal. To be 
sure, he could not help thinking that boys were 
animals, but he did not suppose the man would want 
to shoot a boy, if he knew it. But how could any 
one tell that Harry was a boy at that distance, and 
in that light ? 

Poor Harry did not even dare to call out. He 
could not speak without moving something, his lips 
anyway, and the man might fire at the slightest 
motion. He was so quiet that the musk-rat — it was 
a musk-rat that lived in the hole — came out of his 
house, and seeing the boy so still, supposed he was 
nothing of any consequence, and so trotted noise- 
lessly along to the water and slipped in for a swim. 
Harry never saw him. His eyes were fixed on the man. 

For some minutes longer — they seemed like hours 
— he remained motionless. And then he could bear 
it no longer. 

' ' Hel-low ! " he cried. 

" Hel-low ! " said the man. 

Then Harry got up trembling and pale, and the 
man came towards him. 

" Why, I didn't know what you were," said the 
man. 

'.' Tony Kirk ! " exclaimed Harry. Yes, it was 
Tony Kirk, sure enough, a man who would never 
shoot a boy, — if he knew it. 

"What are you doing here," asked Tony, "a- 
squattin' in the dirt at supper-time?" 

Harry told him what he was doing and how he 
had been frightened, and then the remark about 
supper-time made him think of his sister. "My 
senses! " he cried, "there's Kate ! she must'think 
I'm lost." 

"Kate!" exclaimed Tony. "What Kate? 
You don't mean your sister ! " 

" Yes, I do," said Harry; and away he ran down 
the shore of the creek. Tony followed, and when 
he reached the big pine tree, there was Harry gaz- 
ing blankly around him. 

" She's gone ! " faltered the boy. 

"I should think so," said Tony, " if she knew 
what was good for her. What's this? " His quick 
eyes had discovered the paper on the tree. 

Tony pulled the paper from the pine trunk and 
tried to read it, but Harry was at his side in an in- 
stant, and saw it was Kate's writing. It was almost 
too dark to read it, but he managed, by holding it 
towards the west, to make it out. 

" She's gone home," he said, "and I must be 
after her ; " and he prepared to start. 

" Hold up ! " cried Tony, " I'm going that way. 
And so you've been getherin sumac." Harry had 
read the paper aloud. " There's no use o' leavin' 
yerbag. Git it out o' the bushes, and come along 
with me." 



J873-] 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



91 



Harry soon found his bag, and then he and Tony 
set out along the road. 

" What are you after? " asked Harry. 

" Turkeys," said Tony. 

Tony Kirk was always after turkeys. He was a 
wild-turkey hunter by profession. It is true there 
were seasons of the year when he did not shoot tur- 
keys, but although at such times he worked a little 
at farming and fished a little, he nearly always found 
it necessary to do something that related to turkeys. 
He watched their haunts, he calculated their in- 
crease, he worked out problems which proved to 
him where he would find them most plentiful in the 
fall, and his mind was seldom free from the consid- 
eration of the turkey question. 

" Isn't it rather early for turkeys?" asked Harry. 

"Well, yes," said Tony, "but I'm tired o' wait in." 

"I'm goin' to make a short cut," -continued 
Tony, striking out of the road into a narrow 
path in the woods. " You can save half-a-mile by 
comin' this way." 

So Harry followed him. 

"I don't mind takin' you," said Tony, "fur I 
know you kin keep a secret. My turkey-blind is 
over yander ; " and as he said this he put his hand 
into his coat pocket and pulled out a handful of 
shelled corn which he began to scatter along the 
path, a grain or two at a time. After ten or fifteen 
minutes' walking, Tony scattering corn all the way, 
they came to a mass of oak and chestnut boughs, 
piled up on one side of the path like a barrier. 
This was the turkey-blind. It was four or five 
feet high, and behind it Tony was accustomed to 
sit in the early gray of the morning, waiting for 
the turkeys which he hoped to entice that way by 
means of his long line of shelled corn. 

" You see I build my blind," said he to Harry, 
"and then I don't come here till I've sprinkled 
my corn for about a week, and got the turkeys 
used to comin' this way after it. Then I get back 
o' that thar at night and wait till the airly mornin' 
when they're sartin to come gobblin' along till I can 
get a good crack at em." With this he sat down 
on a log, which Harry could scarcely see, so dark 
was it in the woods by this time. 

" Are you tired ? " said Harry. 

" No," answered Tony, " I'm goin' to stop here. 
I want to be ready fur 'em before it begins to be 
light." 

" But how am I to get home? " said Harry. 

"Oh, jist keep straight on in that track. It'll 
take yer straight to the store, ef ye don't turn out 
uv it." 

"Can't you come along and show me," said 
Harry, "I can't find the way through these. dark 
woods." 



" It's easy enough," said Tony, striking a match 
to light his pipe. " I could find my way with my 
eyes shut. And it would not do fur me to go. I'll 
make too much noise comin' back. There's no 
knowin' how soon the turkeys will begin to stir 
about." 

" Then you oughtn't to have brought me here," 
said Harry, much provoked. 

" I wanted to show you a short way home," said 
Tony, puffing away at his pipe. 

Harry answered not a word, but set out along the 
path. In a minute or two he ran against a tree, 
then he turned to the right and stumbled over a 
root, dropping his bag and nearly losing his hold 
of his gun. He was soon convinced that it was all 
nonsense to try to get home by that path, and he 
slowly made his way back to Tony. 

" I'll tell ye what it is," said the turkey hunter, 
"ef you think you'd hurt yerself findin' yer way 
home, and I thought you knew the woods better 
than that, you might as well stay here with me. 
I'll take you home bright an' airly. You needn't 
trouble yerself about yer sister. She's home long 
ago. It must have been bright daylight when she 
wrote on that paper, and she could keep the road 
easy enough." 

Harry said nothing, but sat down on the other 
end of the log. Tony did not seem to notice his 
vexation, but talked to him, explaining the mys- 
teries of turkey hunting and the delight of spend- 
ing a night in the woods, where everything was 
so cool and dry and still. "There's no nonsense 
here." said Tony; "' Ef there's any place where 
a feller kin have peace and comfort, it's in the 
woods, at night." 

By degrees Harry became interested and forgot 
his annoyance. Kate was certainly safe at home, 
and as it was impossible for him to find his way out 
of the depths of the woods, he might as well be core- 
tent. He could not even hope to regain the road 
by the way they came. 

Wfcen Tony had finished his pipe he took Harry 
behind his blind. "All you have to do." said he, 
" is jist to peep over here and level your gun along 
that path, keepin yer eye fixed straight in front of 
you and after awhile you can begin to see things. 
Suppose that dark lump down yander was a turkey. 
Just look at it long enough and you kin make it 
out. You see what I mean, don't you ?" 

" Yes," said Harry, peeping over the blind ; " I 
see it," and then, with a sudden jump, he whisper- 
ed, "Tony! it's moving." 

Tony did not answer for a moment, and then he 
hurriedly whispered back, " That's so ! It /s mov- 
ing." 



9 2 



HOW A TINKER WROTE A NOVEL. 



[December, 



THE SACRED BEAN. 



OUR picture certainly looks very much unlike 
a bean ; in fact, some of our readers may suppose it 




to be a wasp's nest. It is, however, the seed-vessel 
of a plant, and the loose little balls, which look as 
if they were ready to roll out of the holes, are 



the "beans "or seeds. In India it is known as the 
sacred bean, and in this country it is often called the 
water-chinquepin, because its seeds resemble the 
chinquepin or dwarf chestnut. It is found growing in 
deep water, both in the southern and western 
states. It grows in a few places in the eastern and 
middle states ; for instance, in the Connecticut 
River near Lyme, and in Big Sodus Bay, Lake 
Ontario. The plant bears large circular leaves one 
to two feet in diameter, which grow out of the 
water, and do not float on the surface like the 
leaves of the common water-lily. The flowers are 
pale yellow, and from five to ten inches broad. 
After the flowers drop their leaves or petals, the 
seed-vessel gradually assumes the form shown in 
our picture. This seed-vessel is shaped somewhat 
like a top, and the 4 " beans" look a little like acorns. 
The root resembles that of the sweet potato, and is 
said to be very nutritious when boiled; in fact, the 
Indians used to cook it in this way for food. 

The seeds are also good to eat, and this makes 
its name of the water-chinquepin all the more 
appropriate, for although some of our Northern 
readers may not know it, the chinquepin bush 
of the South bears a nut that is very good eat- 
ing. 




HOW A TINKER WROTE A NOVEL. 



By Donald G. Mitchell. 



Once upon a time — years and years ago — I 
wanted some good Sunday book to read ; and when 
the want was made known, I was helped to a big, 
leather-bound, octavo book, which at first glance — 
notwithstanding one or two large splotches of gilt 
upon the back — did not look inviting. In the first 
place, what boy wants to grapple with a big octavo? 
Your precious old aunt will tell you what an octavo 
is — that it means a book with its paper folded so as 



to make eight leaves of every sheet, whereas a 
duodecimo is one of paper folded so as to make 
twelve leaves to a sheet ; and this last is therefore 
much handier and every way better for boy use — 
at least, I think so. Then it was bound in full calf 
— very suspiciously like a dictionary, and like — 
well, I must say it — like the Bible. I don't mean, 
of course, to breathe one word against that venera- 
ble volume; but then you know, when a fellow 



1873-1 



HOW" A TINKER WROTE A NOVEL. 



93 



wants a good Sunday book and knows just where 
the Bible is kept, and has read it ever so often, he 
doesn't want what looks too much like it. 

However, there I was with the big book on my 
knee : and there were pictures in it. These were 
stunning. There was a picture of a man with a 
great pack on his back, doing his best to get out of 
a huge bog; and there were some people standing 
by who didn't seem to help him much. 

There was a picture of a prodigious giant — fully 
as large as that in Jack and the Bean-stalk story — 
who was leading off two little men — one of whom 
looked like the man that wore the big pack, and 
was near sinking in the bog. Then there was a 
splendid picture of this same little man walking up 
with all the pluck in the world, through a path, 
beside which were seated two old giants, which — by 
the bones which lay scattered around their seats — 
seemed to have been amusing themselves by eating 
up just such little men as the plucky one, who 
came marching up between them so bravely. 

In short, the pictures carried the day; and though 
it seemed droll Sunday work, I wanted amazingly 
to find out how this plucky little man got through 
with his bogs and giants. 

So I set to. 

Christian was the man's name, and he had a 
family ; but he became pretty well satisfied that he 
was living in a city that would certainly be de- 
stroyed ; and was very much troubled about it, and 
couldn't sleep o' nights, nor let his family sleep. 

So it happened that this Christian, after getting 
some directions from a man called Evangelist, "put 
out" one day, with his pack on his back, and left his 
wife and children. 

I didn't quite like the manner in which the book 
makes him leave his family ; his course was all 
very well ; but why shouldn't he have taken them 
along with him, instead of leaving that fellow 
Great Hear but I mustn't tell the story in ad- 
vance. 

Well, this man Christian got into the bog I spoke 
of, and he got out again — no thanks to the two 
weak fellows who journeyed thus far with him, and 
who had no sooner got a foot in the mire than they 
set off — back for home. And Christian gets rid of 
his pack too after a time, and sees wonderful things 
at a house he comes to on his way, called the In- 
terpreter's house; amongst the rest, — two boys 
named Patience and Passion whom I haven't for- 
gotten to this day ; and a man with a muck rake 
grubbing away desperately, who comes into my 
mind now every time I go to the city and walk 
down Wall street. 

But Christian was not journeying in Wall street, 
no, no : though there was a Vanity Fair where he 
tarried; and it was a city not very unlike New York. 



Faithful, who went with him, got whipped and 
hung there — if I remember rightly. He would 
have escaped that in New York; you know. 

There was an Apollyon in the book ; and a pro- 
digious monster with scales, equal to anything in 
the "Arabian Nights;" and he strode wide across 
the path by which Christian was going to the Celes- 
tial city, and gave fight to him. It was "nip and 
tuck " with them for a long time, and I wasn't sure 
how it would come out. But at last Christian gave 
Apollyon a good punch under the fifth rib, and the 
dragon flew away. He wasn't through with his 
troubles, though ; in fact, all sorts of enemies came 
upon him. There was a Giant Despair — it was he 
who was figured in one of the pictures — who took 
him to his castle and thrust him into a dungeon ; 
and this giant had a wife called Diffidence — which 
seemed a very funny name for a woman who ad- 
vised the giant to give Christian and Faithful a 
good sound beating, every day after breakfast. He 
did give them a beating, and a good many of them ; 
and Christian would have been murdered outright, 
if he had not bethought himself of a key he had. 
which unlocked the door of the giant's dungeon ; 
and so he stole out and escaped. It was very stupid 
of him not to think of that key before, but he didn't. 

So he went on, this plucky, earnest Christian — 
meeting with hobgoblins — worrying terribly in a 
certain Valley of Humiliation — enjoying himself 
hugely in the Delectable mountains, where some 
hospitable shepherds lived and entertained him. — 
reaching the very worst, as would seem, in the 
Valley of the Shadow of Death ; but coming out all 
right at last by the shores of the river of Life, and 
in the streets of the Celestial City. 

Don't forget that it was a Sunday on which I first 
read this book, and dreamed, after it — of Apollyon 
(who I imagined a monster bat, with wings ten feet 
long, and flopping them with a horrible, flesh-y 
sound) — also of Giant Despair and his deep dungeon, 
(if Christian had happened to forget the key !) 

I don't think I dreamed of old Worldly Wiseman, 
or Pliable, or Legality, or Pick-thank. These are 
humble, riff-raff characters (to boys), compared 
with Apollyon. But the day will come when grown 
boys will reckon them worse monsters than even 
Apollyon — by a great deal. I know I do. 

There was a second part to this story — though 
both parts were bound in one within the leather 
covers I told you of. It was too much together for 
one day's reading ; but I came to it all afterward. 

The second part tells the story of Christian's 
wife and children, and how they packed up, and 
journeyed by the same road through the Valley of 
Humiliation, and over the Delectable mountains to 
the Celestial City. And there was a splendid fellow 
called Gr^at-Heart who traveled with them and 



94 



HOW A TINKEP WROTE A NOVEL. 



[December, 



made much lighter of the dragons than Christian 
did, and who loved a good fight, and who — if the 
story is true, which you must judge of yourselves — 
absolutely went over into the grounds of Giant 
Despair, and slew him — as much as such a character 
can be slain. 

I thought all the world of Great-Heart. I was 
glad when Mercy, who was a pretty, nice young 
woman that joined the travelers, refused Mr. 
Brisk (not much of a man) ; and I thought Great- 
Heart ought to have married her. But it didn't 
end so. Great-Heart never married. In fact the 
story is so rapid, there is no time for marrying. 

Well, that story in the leathern covers, and as 
big as a Bible, has been printed by thousands and 
hundreds of thousands, and has been translated 
into all the languages of Europe, and it was writ- 
ten by a traveling tinker ! Think of that. 

John Bunyan was his name ; and he was born in 
a house built of timber and clay (which was stand- 
ing not many years ago) in the little village of 
Elstow, near to Bedford, England. 

Bedfordshire is a beautiful county, there are 
fine farms and great houses, and beautiful parks in 
it; but this man, John Bunyan, was the son of a travel- 
ing tinker, and was born there only a few years 
after the pilgrims landed from the Mayflower, on 
Plymouth Rock. He says of himself that he was a 
wild lad, swearing dreadfully, going about with his 
father to tinker broken tea-pots, lying under hedges, 
having narrow escapes from death. Once, falling 
into the river Ouse, and another time handling an 
adder and pulling out his fangs with his fingers. 

But he fell in with Puritan preachers, who 
"waked his conscience;" for he lived just in the heart 
of those times which are described in Walter Scott's 
novel "Woodstock:" and he didn't think much 
of Episcopacy or Bishops ; and at last he took to 
preaching himself, having left off all his evil 
courses. He married too, and had four children — 
one of them, Mary Bunyan, blind from her birth. 

He fought in the civil wars under Cromwell, and 
it is possible enough that he may have seen Charles 
the First go out to execution. May be he was one 
of those crazy fellows who came to Ditchley (in 
Scott's novel) to help capture the runaway, Charles 
the Second, who was gallivanting in that time in 
the household of old Sir Arthur Lee. He throve 
while the Commonwealth lasted, but when Charles 
the Second was called back to the throne in 1660 
(John Bunyan being then thirty-two years old), it 
was a hard time for Puritans, and worst of all for 
such Puritan of Puritans as the Puritan preacher 
— Bunyan. 

They tried him for holding disorderly religious 
meetings, and he put a brave face on it and con- 
tested his right ; but this only made the matter 



worse for him, and they condemned him to perpet- 
ual banishment. Somehow, this judgment was 
changed in such a way, that Bunyan, in place of being 
shipped to Holland or Amercia (where he would 
have found a parish), was clapped into Bedford jail, 
where he lay (he tells us) " twelve entire years. " He 
had no book there but the Bible and Fox's Book 
of Martyrs. He made tag-lace to support his 
family, the while he was in jail, and bemoaned very 
much the possible fate of his poor blind daughter 
Mary. 

While he was living this long prison life, country 
people in England were reading the newly printed 
book, by Isaac Walton, called the Complete Angler, 
and during the same period of time, John Milton 
published his Paradise Lost ; and in that Bedford 
jail, in those same years, John Bunyan wrote the 
story I have told you of, called "The Pilgrim's 
Progress." 

He came out of jail afterwards — a good two hun- 
dred years ago to-day — and took to preaching 
again. But he preached no sermon that was heard 
so widely, or ever will be, as his preachments in 
"The Pilgrim's Progress." 

He went on some errand of charity in his sixtieth 
year, and took a fever and died in 1688. It was 
the very year in which the orthodox people of Eng- ' 
land had set on foot the revolution which turned 
out the Papish King James the Second, and 
brought in the Protestant William and Mary. 
Poor John Bunyan would have seen better times 
if he had lived in their day, and better yet if he 
had lived in ours, and written in the magazines as 
well as he wrote about Great-Heart. 

Live as long as you may, you can never outlive 
the people that he set up in his story. 

Messrs. Legality, and Cheat, and Love-lust, 
and Carnal-mind, we meet every day in society. 
Every boy and girl of you all will go by and by — 
stump — into some slough of Despond; and God help 
you, if the pack you carry into it is big ! Always, 
and all times, there must be thwacking at dra- 
gons in our own valleys of humiliation, and if the 
teeth of Giant Pope are pulled, Giant Despair, 
whatever Great-Heart may have done, will be sure 
to catch us some day in Doubting Castle. In fact, 
I don't much believe Great-Heart did kill him, and 
think, to that extent, the work is a fiction. Giant 
Despair lives ; you may be sure of it ; and he has a 
new wife ; and her name is not Diffidence now, but 
Swagger ; and you would do well to give her a wide 
berth. As for that Valley of the Shadow of Death, 
who that has lived since Bunyan died, or who that 
shall live henceforth, may escape its bewilderments 
and its terrors? The poor tinker and preacher — the 
zealous writer who made his words cleave like sharp 
knives, sleeps now quietly (to all seeming) in a grave 



1873.1 



SAM. QUIMBY'S ART SUMMER. 



95 



on Bun-hill Fields; and we shall have our resting and for such as we, must lie straight through the 

places marked out too, before many more crops awful Valley of the Shadow of Death, 

of autumn leaves shall fall to the ground ; but ever- It would be a sad story if there were no Celestial 

more, the path to such resting-place, for such as he, City. Now, let us read " The Pilgrim's Progress." 




TOMB UF JUHN BUNVAN. — (TAKEN FROM A PHOTOGRAPH.) 



SAM QUIMBY'S ART SUMMER. 
By Fanny Barrow. 



In the warm August days, with their golden 
sunshine, making wood and sky magnificent, an 
artist named May came to live with farmer Quimby. 
He set his easel up in the " spare room," spare 
and prim enough ; for Mrs. Quimby — although she 
kept everything as neat as a pin, and cooked de- 
lightful doughnuts — knew as much about making a 
room beautiful to live in as a cat knows about play- 
ing the fiddle. 

So the artist went into the woods, and brought 
back long trailing vines, and twined wreaths over 
the windows and door. He hung up a set of 
wooden shelves, ornamented with birch bark, upon 
which he arranged his books ; and the room began 
to look comfortable. 

But Mrs. Quimby, who was a fat, funny-looking 
old lady with no shape at all to speak of, lifted up 
her hands and eyes and exclaimed, " Wall now ! 
It just beats me why he should want to litter up 
the room with them ar old weeds.!" 



Not so Sam, the farmer's son — a great, rough, 
healthy, country boy. He stood at the door, bash- 
fully peeping in, and declared that it was " terrible 
pooty," and "dreadful nice," and when the artist 
looked up smiling at these compliments, he rushed 
off and hid himself in the barn. 

Sam was out in the fields nearly all day, tossing 
hay, and riding home on top of great loads of it, 
full of grasshoppers ; and whenever he could get 
a chance, darting into his mother's pantry, eating 
doughnuts and drinking milk. But now, he did 
something besides this. He forgot his work, to 
watch the artist. Great and greater grew his 
wonder, as the woods and mountains so familiar to 
him appeared upon the canvas. And when the 
lovely little stream, which sang all day long through 
the wood, and at last in a high frolic, tumbled 
heels over head over a boulder, came to light in 
the artist's work, Sam had almost spasms of 
delight. 



96 



SAM quimby's art summer. 



[December, 



I'llllllllllliP 
Ml Mi III l 

it I 



wmmmam 



II 
in 11 hi in 



■HNT • 





"now, i'll put a little color onto you 



"Oh dear," he cried, "I wish I could make He begged his mother for paper and pen- 
pictures. I must ! I will !" and he rubbed his hair cil, and rushing out, climbed up into the fork 
tip hard with both hands, and looked quite crazy of a tree, and after many attempts, during 
■enough for a genius. which he chewed his pencil into bits, he drew 



i8 7 3-] 



SAM O U I M B Y S ART SUJIM E R . 



97 



this beautiful picture of a cow reclining at her 
ease. 

Here it is ; quite nice, I think, for a beginning. 
At any rate, it looks more like a cow than it does 
like a crocodile. 

But Sam, like a true genius, 
was disgusted with his cow. He 
wanted to do better. " I say !" 
he exclaimed. '"I sav ! I know 




how to make a cow here" — thumping his head 
with his fist, "why can't I get it right on pa- 
per?" 

The next day he drew the cat washing her face 
by the kitchen fire. It looked very like the cow, 
with whiskers instead of horns, but never mind. 
Sam went on sketching everything he saw, on odd 
bits of paper, and all over the wall of his little 
room in the peaked roof of the cottage, until Mrs. 
Quhnby, dreadfully worried about him, said to the 
farmer, " I'm clean tuckered out about Sam; I do 
believe he has gone cracked !" 

" Gone cracked !" repeated the farmer. "Why, 
Molly, he's a'most as smart as the painter fellow ! 
Why, now, just look at that there cat he took ! 
Why, it's as likely a picture as ever I see." 

"Oh," cried Sam, delighted at this praise, "I've 
got some paintin' fixin's that Mr. May gave me, 
and I'd like to take your portrait, Pop. Just you 
sit down and let me try." 

The other artist had gone away trout-fishing for 
the day, and Sam, in his delight, proposed to borrow 
his easel and paint his father in fine style. 

Down sat the good old farmer, grinning and 
chuckling, and Sam, staring his eyes nearly out of 
his head, made a lovely profile likeness of his 
father, with his old cloth cap stuck far back on his 
head, and one eye very flat and wide open, in the 
top of the forehead. 

"Wall, I declare!" cried the old man, looking 



into the picture as though it were a mirror, "it 
beats all ! but I must go now." 

" All right," said Sam, as he leaned back in his 
chair to take an admiring gaze at his work; " you 
go and I'll stay and put a little more color onto 
you." 

Meantime, the other artist had returned unex- 
pectedly, and he was now standing at the door 
nearly bursting with suppressed laughter. At last 
a queer choking sound caused Sam 'to turn around. 
Up he jumped, dropped the palette, tried to pick 
it up, stepped on it, fell over it, and in his frantic 
struggles, upset the easel, with the tumbler of 
water, his father's portrait and all, and finally 
picked himself up with his hair straight on end 
with fright and confusion. 

" Well, my young Titian." said the artist as soon 
as he could speak for laughing, "there's nothing 
to be ashamed of. Do you think you would like 
to be a painter ? If you choose I will give you 
lessons." 

This glorious offer made Sam turn crimson, 
and tingle from head to foot with delight. He 
had no fine long words in which to express his 
joy. He only answered, "Oh, ... sir," and 
rushed out into the kitchen, to stand on his 
head, and dance a hornpipe, in order ,'o relieve 
his feelings. 

Then, all at once, he went up to his mothei . who 
was rolling out paste for an apple-dumpling, and 
said in a strange, soft, new voice. " Oh mother : 
I am going to learn to be a painter, then I too will 
know how to paint the beautiful woods and moun- 
tains." 

After this, Sam's thoughts by day were of paint- 
ing, and he dreamed of nothing else at night. 

But Mrs. Quimby went about turning up the 
whites of her eyes and moaning. " Who on earth 
will help your father with the farm ? Who'll help 
him, I want to know?" 

While the good old farmer, who was as sensible 
an old fellow as you will meet in a month of 
Sund — ,said: "Never you mind, Molly ; if it is in 
him to be a painter, he won't make a good farmer ; 
so just you let the boy try." 

Sam is hard at work now, learning his art — and 
for aught you and I know, or do not know — one 
of these days we may hear again of Samuel Quimby, 
Esq., the great painter. 



Vol. I. 



98 



FOR VERY LITTLE FOLKS 




FOR VERY LITTLE FOLKS. 

"Oh, come, Bell," 
said Kate, with a hop, 
skip, and jump; "come 
take a walk with me." 
"Oh yes," said Bell, 
"let us go," and she too 
had to hop, skip, and 
jump, she was so glad, 

Down the lane they went, hand in hand, with 

a hop, skip, and jump, all in a lump, till they fell 

with a bump, just by a pump. But they were not 

hurt. Oh, dear no! not a bit! 

"Oh, look!" said Bell, "look at Dash, and old 

Grey! Why, Grey must 
have told Dash that he 
was dry, oh so dry ! and 
see ! Dash has the rope 
fast. He looks up! he 
' Come to the 




pump, old Grey, 
and take all you 
want.' I love Dash, 
§| don't you ? " 



i8?3] 



THE WONDERFUL RIVER. 



99 



THE WONDERFUL RIVER. 



By Paul Fort. 



[see frontispiece.] 

4 



The entrance to the cave was not imposing. It 
seemed like a hole in the ground — and that, in fact, 
was all it was. But those who had gone through this 
hole and had entered the grand " chamber of the 
Dome," through which the Wonderful River ran, 
knew what a magnificent place the cave was. The 
underground dwarfs used to sail on the river in their 
boats, and when their torches blazed up they could 
see the roof high above them sparkling as though 
it were set with diamonds, and wherever the light 
struck on the walls they shone and glittered like 
piles of polished crystal. Long pendants, hanging 
as if they were icicles of stone, gleamed with bright 
edges and points from the arches overhead, and 
under all this grandeur and brilliancy the river 
rolled, dark and silent. The underground dwarfs 
(and no one else had ever seen this cave) understood 
very little about this river. They knew it came out of 
the wall at one end of the cave and went into the wall 
at the other end, but that was all they knew. And 
considering how curious they were, and how anxious 
to find out things, it is a wonder that the river re- 
mained a complete mystery until young Akaran's 
day. Young Akaran made up his mind that he 
would find out all about the river, and one day he 
took a little boat and after fitting it up for an ex- 
ploration, he rowed to the place where the river 
entered the wall of the cave. Then, as there was 
plenty of room for both the river and his little 
boat, he pulled into the great tunnel through which 
the water flowed. He was gone ever so many days, 
and all his friends thought he was lost, but one 
afternoon they heard his voice calling over the 
water under the great Dome, and they rowed out 



with torches to meet him. The Most Important 
dwarf sat in the prow of the first boat and every- 
body was full of joyful expectation. Akaran had 
wonderful things to tell. 

" I rowed and I rowed for a day and a night," 
said he. 

"And what did you discover?" asked the Most 
Important dwarf. 

"Oh! I went on still further, and rowed, and 
rowed, and rowed." 

"And what did you find out then?" 

"I didn't stop," said Akaran, "but I rowed on 
and on, until at last the rocks were so many and so 
sharp, and the wind was so cold, that I thought I 
had gone far enough, and so I came back, rejoicing 
that I had rowed further along the Wonderful River 
than any one in the world." 

"But what did you see?" the Most Important 
dwarf asked again. 

"Oh, I couldn't see anything. It was as dark as 
pitch all the way. And the wind blew so that I 
could not light a torch." 

" And so you really saw nothing at all? " 

" Not a thing," said Akaran. "But no one ever 
went so far along the river before." 

"And no one ever shall again," said the Most 
Important dwarf. "To risk life where nothing is 
to be gained by it, is all stuff and nonsense. Let 
us row home." 

And so the Wonderful River has ever since 
flowed on as before, dark and mysterious beneath 
the great Dome and through the unknown tunnels. 
None know whence it comes or whither it goes. 

But the dwarfs are just as happy as if they knew. 




My little one came, and brought me a flower, 

Never a sweeter one grew ; 
But it faded and faded in one short hour, 

And lost all its pretty blue. 

My little one stayed in the room, and played; 

And so my flower bloomed bright — 
My beautiful blossom that did not fade, 

But slept in my arms all night. 



IOO 



JACK-IN -THE-PULTIT. 



[December, 













^S^iiE 




JACK- IN-THE- PULPIT. 



Here I am again! Nothing very much to say, 
so I suppose we'll talk rather longer than usual. 

LEAVE THE HOUSE. 

SOME of you children look pale. That's because 
you don't exercise enough in the open air — you, 
little girls, 1 mean especially. Study your lessons 
if you must, for I wouldn't on any account interfere 
with the advice of other Jacks; but remember that 
there are out-of-door lessons to learn — music less- 
ons to take from the birds in summer and the winds 
in winter, picture lessons from Master Nature, 
health lessons from Dr. Oxygen, and love lessons 
from the bright blue sky. Don't miss them, my 
dears, else some day you'll be " kept in " for 
non-attendance in a way you'll not fancy. What 
would you like to hear about this time ? The birds 
have brought me word of all sorts of doings, and I 
hardly know where to begin. 

INDIA RUBBER TREES. 

Are all of you provided with India rubber boots 
for the winter ? A smart bird asked me the other 
day if I'd ever seen an overshoes tree. He thougru 
he was having a good joke on poor Jack. But I 
stirred his feathers by telling him that I hadn't 
seen one, but that I knew more about them than 
he could chirp to the moon in a fortnight. You 
see, a South American bird had told a friend of 
mine all about it. He gave me some figures about 
the caoutchouc or India rubber tree that I can 
spare as well as not : The trees are very plentiful, 
43,000 of them having been counted in a tract of 
land eight miles wide and less than four times as 
long. They are tapped for the sake of a milky 
juice, which is the India rubber used in manu- 
facture. This juice or "gum" is whitish at first, 
but is blackened by smoke. Each tree yields 
about a tulipful a day, and can be tapped for 
twenty successive years ; so you see, in case you 



haven't your boots yet, the chances are that they 
are oozing out of some tree for you at this very 
moment. 

NIGHT SCHOOLS. 

Talking of lessons, I wonder if the St. Nicho- 
las children have any idea of how many girls and 
boys go to night schools. The poor little things have 
to work during the day, and so, rather than not have 
any schooling at all, they say their lessons at night. 
Not only young persons, but middle-aged men and 
women attend these schools. I know of one man 
past forty years of age who has learned to read at 
a night school within the last two years. All honor 
to him and the school too. Such schools abound 
now in the large cities. They have fine rooms, 
good teachers, and many thousand pupils in all. 
Capital thing; but (whisper) I'm glad I don't 
have to go. 

A STRETCH OF GOLD. 

Talking of figures, a humming bird told me 
the other day on the very best authority that a 
piece of pure gold as big, or, I should say, as small 
as his own bright little eye, could be beaten out 
thinner and thinner until it would cover seventy 
square miles. Some of you school-boys may say 
"That's too thin." but you're mistaken; and 
besides, Jack doesn't approve of slang expressions. 

A NEW CONUNDRUM. 

Here's a conundrum. Very young folk needn't 
apply. What wild animal is the past tense of a 
verb which, spelled with two letters, means a nega- 
tive ? 

It's a gnu conundrum, you observe. 

TREES UPON STILTS. 

Did ever you hear of trees upon stilts ? A 
lady who had been reading a book called the 
" Desert World" told a little bird about it, and ihe 
little bird brought word direct to me. In Guiana 
and Brazil, the lady said, are found the immense 
forests which supply the whole world with nearly 
all the dye woods in use, and the most beautiful 
timbers for cabinet work. These trees love the 
sea air, so they grow as near to the shore as they 
can without having their roots and trunks washed 
by the salt water, which would kill most if not all 
of them. Between these great forests and the open 
ocean stretch vast swamps, which at low tide are 
only marshy, but at high tide are covered with 
several feet of water. In these swamps grow 
immense quantities of mangroves, their dense 
foliage seeming to float on the surface of the 
water when the tide is in, but when it is out the 
branches present the appearance of growing out 
of the sides of prostrate trunks of trees, which are 
supported upon immense crooked stilts. These 



J A C K - I N - T H E - P U I . P I T . 



IOI 



stilts are the bare roots, which are obliged to seek 
the deep rich mud for nourishment, at the same 
time that they must support the trunk and 
branches at a height that the tide cannot affect 
them. The mangrove swamps are the haunts of 
man)' curious creatures which are here almost per- 
fectly safe from pursuit, for the tangled masses of 
roots are a more effectual defence than the strongest 
walls. 

A VERY FUNNY BOOK. 

I DON'T know when I've laughed inwardly more 
than I did at a book that a dear little girl had in 
our meadow yesterday. The pictures are enough to 
split the sides of the soberest Jack-in-the-Pulpit that 
ever lived ; so funny, and so bright with color that, 
for a moment, it seemed to me as if the autumn 
landscape had suddenly turned into a great 
big illuminated joke. The book is English — I'd 
wager my stalk on that; but it is republished by 
Mr. Scribner's publishing house in New York. It is 
called '-The Ten Little Niggers;" and I'll tell 
you the thrilling story it illustrates, if you'll allow 
me to change one little word throughout the poem, 
so as not to hurt anybody's feelings : 

THE TEN LITTLE BLACK BOYS. 

Ten little black boys went out to dine: 

One choked his little self, and then there were nine. 

Nine little black boys sat up very late ; 

One overslept himself, and then there were eight. 

Eight little black boys, traveling in Devon ; 

One said he'd stay there, and then there were seven. 

Seven little black boys, chopping up sticks : 

One chopped himself in halves, and then there were six. 

Six little black boys, playing with a hive; 

A bumble-bee stung one, and then there were five. 

Five little black boys, going in for law ; 

One got in chancery and then there were four. 

■ Four littre black boys, going out to sea ; 

A red herring swallowed one. and then there were three. 

Three little black boys, walking in the ''Zoo; " 
The big bear hugged one, and then there were two. 

Two little black boys, sitting in the sun; 
One got frizzled up, and then there was one. 

One little black boy, living all alone ; 

He got married, and then there were none. 

THE 'BEST PATHFINDERS. 

Do my young Americans know who are the 
best pathfinders on the American continent, 
the great original pathfinders of the West ? I'll 
tell you. They are the buffaloes. Yes, sir, it's 
true. Hear what a correspondent of ST. NICHOLAS 
writes with the quill of a dear gray-goose friend of 
mine : 

As the frosts of winter destroy their pastures 
in the north, so the heats of summer parch those 
in the south, and the buffaloes must, each spring 



and autumn, take long journeys in search of fresh 
feeding grounds. The large size and weight of 
these somewhat clumsy explorers make it rather 
difficult for them to cross the mountains, so they 
seek out for themselves the most practicable routes; 
and hunters and emigrants have found that a 
"buffalo-track" offers the surest and safest path 
for men and horses. The best passes in the Cum- 
berland and Rocky mountains, and the regions of 
the Yellowstone, and the Colorado, have been dis- 
covered by following the trail of these sagacious 
animals. 

I know this is so. for the great traveler, Hum- 
bolt, once wrote : " In this way the humble buffalo 
has filled a most important part in facilitating geo- 
graphical discovery in mountainous regions other- 
wise as trackless as the Arctic wastes, as the sands 
of Sahara." 

ORGAN MOUNTAINS. 

I KNOW where there are some organ moun- 
tains ! How did I hear? Why, the fact is, my 
new St. NICHOLAS friends, without intending 
the slightest disrespect to the birds, already have 
begun to send me paragrams, as I suppose all 
messages over the paragraphic wires must be 
called. Here's the message about organ moun- 
tains: "I don't mean musical instruments, dear 
Jack, so big as to be called mountains — though 
there are some cathedral organs large enough to 
almost deserve the term, — but real mountains. Up 
to heights sometimes greater than that of Mount 
Washington, these organ mountains do not differ 
from other ranges in the same countries. Bu' 
suddenly, from the midst of the trees and verdure 
with which the lower parts of the mountains are 
covered, there rise the vast and smoothly-rounded 
columns of sparkling porphyry whose resemolance 
to the pipes of gigantic organs gives a name to the 
mountains. 

" Peaks and ranges of this kind are found in 
France and in Mexico, but the most celebrated are 
the" Sierra de los Organos in Brazil, rising west and 
north of the beautiful bay of Rio Janeiro. To 
make the resemblance more complete these moun- 
tains emit a grand and wonderful harmony. The 
lightest breeze, even the cry of a jaguar, or the 
howling of a monkey, passing between these vast 
stone pipes produces a wild and solemn music. 
The great instruments are seldom quite silent, even 
in the calmest weather, but in a storm their mys- 
terious tones rise and swell into harmonious 
thunder. Sometimes long before a storm breaks 
upon the country below, the inhabitants are warned 
by the notes of the mountains that a tempest is 
coming, and the Indians whisper, ' The Great 
Spirit makes thunder-music ; by and by He will 
be angry. ' " 



io: 



BOOKS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. 



[December 



BOOKS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. 



The most charming book for young readers pub- 
lished tnis season, is " Bed-time Stories ," by Louise 
Chandler Moulton (Roberts Bros., Boston). The 
volume contains sixteen delightfully-told tales, just 
as full of lovable boys and girls as any book can be. 
We fear that if any of these stories were told at bed- 
time to some young folks we know, they would 
not have their natural rest, for it would be impossi- 
ble to get them to go to sleep until everj' story was 
told. The illustrations are by Addie Ledyard, and 
altogether it is a book which our little folks — the 
girls especially — ought to have before the year is out. 

After you have read Mrs. Moulton's book you 
hardly can find anything new that will interest you 
more than Northern Lights, a collection of stories 
by Swedish and Finnish authors, translated by 
Selma Borg and Marie A. Brown. The publishers 
(Porter & Coates, of Philadelphia) have had the 
original Swedish pictures re-drawn by Mr. Bensell, 
and the book is one of the handsomest of the 
season. These "Lights" will lead you into the 
very brightest and richest nooks of story-land, 
and, what is of great importance, they will bring 
you back again, with its gleams still lingering 
about you. It is a good thing to feel, after we have 
read a delightful book, " Ah, now I can strive and 
study with a will !" But if it makes us sigh, "Ah, 
how can I take up my old humdrum life again !" 
we may be sure something is wrong. 

Porter & Coates, of Philadelphia, send us 
"Lady Green Safin." 

Lady Green Satin was only a little white mouse, 
living in a cattle-shed on the Pyrenees mountains, 
until Jean Paul found her. 

Jean Paul was nine years old. His father was 
dead, his mother and sisters very poor, so poor, 
that the dear little fellow ran five miles to carry 
a letter and fetch its answer, in order to earn a little 
less than ten of our cents, that he might buy black- 
bread to give them to eat. 

The way was so long that on his way back it 
grew quite dark. The rain began to fall, and he 
went into the cattle-shed where Lady Green Satin 
and her maid Rosetti lived. 

In the night when the white mice began to 
nibble at the little boy's supper of white bread, 
Jean Paul caught them, put them on his head 
underneath his leather cap, fastened it, and went 
home before daylight. 

This delightful new fairy story tells us how the 
little white mice came to be Lady Green Satin and 



her maid Rosetti; how Jean Paul taught them to 
perform wonderful tricks on a small white board, 
which he called his theatre ; how, when times were 
bad and he could get no more money by exhibiting 
Lady Green Satin among the Pyrenees, he left his 
home one day, with the consent of his mother, and 
made his way to Paris. The story tells us how. 
after many days the little fellow came to the great 
city; how he thought he could sleep in the streets 
and fovfnd that he could not; how he gained his 
lodgings for two sous a night, and then went and 
came, cold, wet, hungry, and sometimes very happy 
because Lady Green Satin and her maid Rosetti 
had performed so well, that he had gained good 
friends, and best of all, had gathered many sous to 
send to his dear mother and sisters. 

The story is charmingly told. The sweet, 
evcry-minute trust in the good God that led Jean 
Paul safely through so many hard places and 
at last back to his home, is just the trust that 
children, and grown folks, too, need everywhere in 
order to make life bright all the way through. The 
book is written by the Baroness E. Martineau des 
Chesnez, and will, we hope, be read by every reader 
of St. Nicholas. 

" Romain Kalbris. His Adventures by Sea and 
Shore," is a book that is certain to be read — de- 
voured, we will say — by every boy ■ into whose 
hands it may fall, and upon the whole, we recom- 
mend it. The adventures ate possible, the escapes 
thrilling ; and Romain's honesty is so true in 
great or small emergencies, and his return to his 
duties at ".ast is so satisfactory that we are inclined to 
do as others did and forgive him. Romain Kalbris 
is translated from the French of Hector Malot, by 
Mrs. Julia McNair Wright. Published by Porter 
& Coates, of Philadelphia. 

" Try and Trust ; or, The Story of a Bottnd 
Boy." By Horatio Alger, Jr. Loring, publisher, 
Boston. Here is a book for the boys, by a capital 
writer. It is the story of an orphan boy who had 
been well trained, and fairly educated, but who on 
the death of his mother was left without means. 
His uncle in a distant city, influenced by the pride 
of his family, failed to assist him. He was then 
obliged to take a situation as bound-boy by the 
select-men of the town in which he lived. His up- 
right conduct and fearlessness carry him safely 
through many perils. The master to whom he is 
bound is very cruel, but his unreasonable treatment 
only serves to show the heroism of the boy, who 



l8 7 3-] 



THE RIDDLE BOX. 



IO3 



bravely carries out the last advice of his loved 
mother, to "try and trust." After leaving his in- 
human master, he meets with many adventures, 

and finally . But you must read the book for 

yourselves, young friends. Its fresh incidents will 
delight you and you'll take in good lessons without 
knowing it. 

" Brightside," by Mrs. E. Bedell Benjamin. 
Published by Robert Carter & Bros. 

This story of little Sorella, an English child, 
left in charge of a careless nurse in Italy while 
her parents went to Russia, and afterwards stolen in 
Naples and brought to America, is told in a simple 
and very interesting manner. All our children 
will be delighted to be told how this little stolen 
girl came to be known by the pleasant family at 
Brightside, and what came of that knowledge. 



"Aunt Sadie's Cow," by Sarah J. Prichard. 
Published by Robert Carter & Bros. 

A beautiful story well told by one who knows the 
ins and outs of young hearts. 

BOOKS RECEIVED. 

Matt's Follies, and other Stories, by Mary N. 
Prescott, with illustrations. James R. Osgood & 
Co., Boston. 

Children of The Olden Time, by the author of 
''A Trap to Catch a Sunbeam." Scribner, Wel- 
foru & Armstrong, New York. 

Leaves from the Tree of Life, by Rev. Richard 
Newton, D.D. ; Truffle Nephews, by Rev. P. L. 
Power ; Fanny's Birthday Gift, by Joanna H. 
Matthews ; Kitty and Lulu books ; Not B?-cad 
Alone. Robert Carter &. Bros., New York. 



THE RIDDLE BOX. 



CLASSICAL DIAMOND PUZZLE. 

1. A CONSONANT. 

2. God of the Shepherds. 

3. Inferior Roman gods. 

4. A Myrmidon hero; father of Epigeus. 

5. A beautiful youth punished by Nemesis. 

6. A legendary hero of Attica: who, emulating Her- 
cules, undertook to destroy the robbers and monsters 
that infested the country. 

7. A fierce and powerful Thracian people, subdued 
by the Romans. 

8. The clothing of the Satyrs. 

9. A consonant. 

The centre letters, horizontal and perpendicular, name 
a god and a flower. 

CHARADE. 

My second went to the side of my first, 
And stayed through the whole, for the air; 

There were croquet and swinging, 

And bathing and singing 
And chatting with maidens fair. 

HIDDEN SQUARE WORDS. 

Four words concealed in the following sentence will 
/orm a perfect word-square : 

He gazes toward the lone beech on the far distant 
lillside, and thinks how happy he should be could he 
Dut own all those broad and fertile fields. 

SQUARE REMAINDERS. 
Behead three words having the following significa- 
ions, and the remaining letters will form a word-square: 
I. Genuine; 2. To change; 3. To crook. 



DOUBLE ACROSTIC. 

I SHINE like the dew-drop when beauty adorning, 
I reflect the green leaves sun-kissed in the morning 

1. A river famed in story. 

2. This the reporter's glory. 

3. A name for anything. 

4. This man will have to swing. 

5. And now I really wish 

To taste this Spanish dish. 

6. This number's anything. 

7. He played before the king. 

REBUS. 




[what great man is THIS? J 



io4 










THE RIDDLE BOX, 



[Decembe 







^sl 



- s 



POSITIVES AND COMPARA 
TIVES. 

( Exa>:ples. — Stream — streamer, past — pastor. 

J. lie brings his bill for service done, 
And straightway mounts his steed. 

2, The little rascal plays his pranks, 
Then runs away with speed 

3 Xow see the youth with nimble tread 
As step by step he mounts. 

4. How well the story he'll relate, 
How rapidly he counts. 

V Then give me but my Arab steed, 
And well I'll shave his head. 

6. Oh ! what a horrid, noisy bell, 
The noontide meal is spread. 





PUZZLE. 




CUR 


IOU 


sepit apht HEM 




ilk ofhum AN 




KIN 


N 


essw ASM vow N 



PICTORIAL DOL'ELH ACROSTIC 



N dearc 
HE rubwi FEI' 
LLX Eve RFI nda no 

the rone asgo O dinal 
LM vli FES heblo 

'0 Me 

DS he B loss 

O Me 

DS He Dec aye Dan 

Dun Dert Hist Reeh 

erbo 
DYISLA ID. 



ANSWERS TO RIDDLES AND PUZZLES IN THE NOVEMBER NUMBER. 



Classical Enigma. — Hesperus, the Evening Star. (Hesperia, 
Granius. Vesta, Teuta, Hera, Nereis). 

Riddle. — A drum. 

Ellipses. — 2. — Abby, baby. 3. — Levi, veil. 4. — Ruth, hurt. 
-Sway, ways. 6. — Pass, asps. 7. — Kale, lake. 

Anagrams. — 1. — Earliest. 2. — Immediate. 3. — Proselytes. 4 — 
Rapacity. 5. — Abdicates. 6. — Beardless. 7 — Journalist. 8. — En- 
largement. 9 — Sectarian. 10. — Incarceration. 

Reels. — In at one ear, and out at the other. 

Logogriph. — Carpet — out of which may be made : ace, acre, act, 
ape, arc, art, car, care, carp, cart, cap, cape, cat, crape, crate, ear. 
pace, part, pat, pea, pear, peat, pet, race, rap, rat, rate, tap. tape, 
tar, tare, tea, tear. 

Paraphrased Proverb. — A care-less watch inn-vue)-tcs a vigil- 
ant foe. 



The Vision. — 




SJfifefp 



taSSi^ii 



Diamond Word. — 



Geographical Rebls. — Next month we shall give the names ol 
those boys and girls who sent to the " Riddle Box " the best list o 
answers to this rebus. Here are the names of sixty towns and 
places that can be found in the picture: 

Lone Pine. Archangel. Bridgeport. Krossen. Buffalo. Rock- 
land. Portland. Rockport. Watertown. Cape Fear. Home 
stead. Pigeon Roost. Hillsdale. Black Rock. Enfield. Water 
ford. Horse Creek. Horsford. Columbia Domaize. Hall 
Carr Rock. Log Cabin. Houston. Katonah. China. Tabli 
Rock. Genoa. Salem. Manchac. Waterloo. Cape Henlopen 
Pine Hill. Boardman. Mendota. Logic. Stockton. Leghorn 
Rameses. Ramsgatc. Wellow. Lowell. Manchester. Bootan 
Manaccan. Stone. Kane. Loggun. Canaan. Kasey's. Mau 
atee. Crestline. Painted Post Turkey. Cape Horn. Skow 
hegan. Chickasaw. Washington. Bull Run. Plainfield. 




THE PRINCES IN THE TOWER. 
FROM A PAINTING BY DELAROCHE- 



ST. NICHOLAS 



Vol. I. 



JANUARY, 1874. 



No. 3. 



CHRISTMAS ANGELS. 
By Donald G. Mitchell. 



I FEEL like a savage — indeed I do ; like Captain 
Kidd with his knife whetted sharp, " as he sailed, 
as he sailed," and the Christmas duns are coming 
in (you '11 know what duns are soon enough without 
looking in your dictionaries). 

And A has promised to pay, and does n't 

pay ; and B has promised to pay, and does n't 

pay. And Sligo & Co., who had a few hundred 
dollars of ours — laid up for a wet day — have sus- 
pended: (you '11 know what that word means too, if 
you live long enough). 

Yet all the while, just beside me, where I am 
writing, I can see a white winged Christmas angel, 
with a star upon her forehead and hand uplifted, 
is warbling a Christmas carol: — 

•"And all the angels. in heaven do sing, 
On Christmas day, on Christmas day ; 
And all the angels in heaven do sing, 
On Christmas day in the morning." 

" Rat — tat — tat." Somebody has come up to 

the door with his small bill ; and would Mr. 

"be so kind as to give a cheque ? " 

— " And all the souls on earth do sing. 

On Christmas day, on Christmas day : 
And all the souls on earth do sing, 
On Christmas day in the morning." 

Shall the angels carry the day ? or, shall Cap- 
tain Kidd ? 

There is a little gush of song from below, where 
piping voices are putting themselves in trim for a 
Christmas anthem, and it floats up the stairs and 
fills the upper hall, and blends softly and gently 
with other voices that I seem to hear above the 
house-tops, carrying along through the wintry 

Vol. I.— 7. 




io6 



CHRISTMAS ANGELS. 



[January, 



skies the first great Christmas carol of " Peace and 
good-will to men." 

That was what the shepherds heard, you know, 
as they lay out of doors at night on the hillside 
somewhere in Judea. And I suppose the angels 
that sang it have been singing it ever since, on 
every Christmas night (eighteen hundred and 
seventy-three of them) — if we could only hear it. 
The singing master's rules can't make you hear it ; 
nor what he calls an- ear for music. There are hard- 
handed men and tender-hearted women whom I 
know, who couldn't tell Old Hundred from the 
last new opera tune — and yet they have so taken 
up the burden of that old, first carol of the Christ- 
mas angels into their ears and heads and hearts, 
that they go echoing it in every step of their march 
through life. 

The angels may talk in songs, perhaps; who 
knows ? But we don't. There 's a great deal of 
Christmas music that does n't get sung, nor yet 
tripped off from the keys of Miss Gertrude's piano. 

" What sort of music, then ? " says Miss Gertrude, 
in a maze. 

Well, there is the click of needles that goes to 
the knitting of some warm worsted muffler for 
grandmamma; there is the earnest "Thank ye 
ma'am" from the old crone in the edge of the wood, 
who gets a fat fowl for her dinner that one day in 
the year ; there is the stifled whispering of a crew 
of little voices, which covers — or tries to cover — 
some grand scheme of a gift that is to lie all re- 
vealed and dazzling on mamma's plate on Christ- 
mas morning ; there are the thousand kind words 
of greeting and cheer drifting about in all the mail- 
bags of Christmas time, making the leathern 
pouches fuller of music than even the Scotch bag- 
pipes. For once, too, there is music in the school- 
master's voice as he says, "The boys and girls 
may have a holiday ! " 

Then there are the stealthy footfalls of that dear, 
tender-hearted mistress of the household as she 
gropes her way, past midnight, from chamber to 
chamber, bearing gifts heaped up and running 
over for the little slumberers — not waking these; 
but surely those quiet, stealthy, kindly footfalls of 
hers shall waken echoes for the blithest carols that 
any of the angels can sing. 

For one, I don't believe that all the angels who 
hover near the earth at Christmas time are grown- 
up angels, though the painters may make them so. 
I think there are little half-formed, piping voices 
that make themselves heard from out all the 
Christmas carolings, more clearly and distinctly, for 
many a listening ear, than if they were full-grown 
voices. 

I dare say you do not know why I should say 
this, or what I mean by it. I can fancy that Miss 



Gertrude or Miss Alice are all agape with wonder- 
ment. 

But listen for a moment. 

Do you know of any little private drawer, where 
you young people may not venture ; and have you 
ever caught sight in it of a tiny pair of half-worn 
morocco shoes, which you know can fit no one — no 
one of the living — and have you ever caught chance 
sight of a certain loved figure bowed down over that 
private drawer; and hurrying away, as if you had 
no right there, have you glanced furtively afterward 
at your mother's face to see if there were signs of 
tears ? 

Yes, there are Christmas angels, who are not 
half grown ; and their childish voices in the sweet 
Christmas tunes, change the plaint of a mother into 
carols of joy. 

/ think there are old Christmas angels too, what- 
ever the painters may say. 

At this, Miss Gertrude rolls her eyes in wonder- 
ment again. 

Have n't you or I had, some day, a darling old 
grandmother, who wore spectacles, perhaps, but 
who had a peach bloom upon her cheek, that told 
of great beauty in her younger days ; not over tall, 
but with a walk that was almost stately for its dig- 
nity ? Then, she had such far-seeing, kindly eyes, 
we could never escape them ; we never wanted to 
escape them ; they had such a sweet, inviting fond- 
ness in them. She did not make her home with 
us ; otherwise, I think we should have outgrown a 
little awe that always came over us in her presence. 
Yet it was an awe that was full of tenderness. 

Jeanette, who was the clever one among us, said 
she did n't quite know whether she felt most fear or 
love of grandmamma : but she could never be in the 
room with her a half hour, and hear her talk as she 
was used to talk, without running up and throwing 
her arms around her neck in such a headlong way 
as put all the old lady's ruffles (for which she had a 
vanity) in danger. 

I think Jeanette was the grandmother's favorite. 

But when the Christmas box came — as it was 
sure to come — bless me, there was no favoritism 
there. 

Dick had his ball — we knew what fingers had 
sewed up its morocco cover ; Fred has his top, and 
a host of nick-nacks besides ; and there were tid- 
bits of all sorts, and candies running over ; but for 
each child, whatever that child's fancy would most 
have coveted, and with ever)- gift a line of writing- 
in that dear hand — overlooked then, in that 
Christmas gale of frolic, but dearly remembered 
now. 

Does anybody who ever had such a grandmamma 
doubt that she is among the Christmas angels? 

(I must own to you, my youngsters, that I had 



1874-J 



THE LAST FLOWER OF THE YEAR. 



10: 



te forgotten the Captain and his sharp knife, their lives with kindly deeds of cheer and of good- 
will tell you more of him some day. ) will — whether young or old, living or dying — in 
Meantime, I am sure that on these — of whom we Christmas times, and in all times, a great light 



quite 
but 

Meantime, . 
have been talking" — and such as these, brightening shall shine forever more. 




THE LAST FLOWER OF THE YEAR. 
By Lucy Larcom. 



The gentian was the year's last child, 
Born when the winds were hoarse and wild 
With wailing over buried flowers. 
The playmates of their sunnier hours. 

The gentian hid a thoughtful eye 
Beneath deep fringes, blue and shy : 
Only by warmest noon-beams won, 
To meet the welcome of the sun. 

The gentian, her long lashes through, 
Looked up into the sky so blue, 
And felt at home — the color, there. 
The good God gave herself to wear. 



The gentian searched the fields around ; 
No flower-companion there she found. 
Upward, from all the woodland ways, 
Floated the aster's silvery rays. 

The gentian shut her eyelids tight 
On falling leaf and frosty night : 
And close her azure mantle drew. 
While dreary winds around her blew. 

The gentian said, "The world is cold; 
Yet one clear glimpse of heaven I hold. 
The sun's last thought is mine to keep ; 
Enough — now let me go to sleep." 



io8 



THE ELVES GIFT. 



[January. 




THE MAN WHO SAT THE OLD YEAR OUT. 



THE ELVES' GIFT. 

Ttw Veritable Narrative of Thomas Graspeii. 

By Arthur Crosby. 



It was very cold, so cold that all about the old 
farm house that day — though the sun had been 
shining his brightest — the icicles had hung motion- 
less, except, perhaps, in one snug little corner, 
where the leafless wistaria trails over the dining- 
room window, and the rose-bushes in their over- 
coats of straw looked so comfortable and warm. 
Into that cozy nook the sun always rushed with 
such an earnest good will, and lingered there so 
cheerily, that the coldest-hearted icicle in the world 
could hardly hold out against him. But on that 
day, before Christmas, I am not sure but even 
there the icicles were unyielding, it was so bitter 
cold. There had been a thaw the previous day, but 
now the deep snow was crusted over so firmly that 



the children could play on the top of it, without 
any chance of breaking through. Of course, this 
was grand fun. They were muffled up in scarfs, 
and tippets, and leggins, until they looked like so 
many laughing worsted balls. How their red 
cheeks shone, and their bright eyes sparkled ! 
How they rolled, and tumbled, and screamed ! and 
little Peter (he was just six) actually had to lie on 
his back and kick his fat legs in the air, he felt so 
good. 

But for Tom Graspen, this was all too childish. 
Why ? Tom was a big boy. He was eleven last 
August, and he was not going to play on the snow 
with the children, while " the boys " were all going 
skating on the mill-pond — not he 



1874-] 



THE ELVES GIFT. 



109 



The plan that afternoon, was to stay late, lor 
there would be a splendid moon. 

What sport they had as they made the hard ice 
ring beneath their steel-clad feet ! To be sure, Tom 
wasn't quite satisfied; he liked the fine skating 
well enough, but he seemed to want summer wea- 
ther with it, and that, of course, was quite out of 
the question ; then his skates, excellent as they 
were, were not of the tip-top, very best and latest 
make, and thac troubled him. However, all the 
other boys were in such glee it did n't make much 
matter. They raced, they played " Cross the Line," 
and " Fox and Geese " until the blood fairly leaped 
through their young veins. And then when the sun 
had set and the moonlight came, it was like a dream 
of fairy-land to glide over the smooth, gleaming 
ice. 

It was glorious ! The very air was full of Christ- 
mas gladness. But all things must end; and at last 
the skaters knew their time was up ; and so, reluct- 
antly taking off their skates, they set out for 
home. 

For a little way up the lane they all kept together, 
but when they reached the main road, Will, and 
Harry and Bob, and the rest, went in one direction, 
while our friend Tom had about a mile of lonely 
road, right through the woods, to walk, all by 
himself. To tell the truth, he did n't like it much. 
He was not a bit afraid ! Oh, no, indeed — but 
then, you know, he would just a little rather have 
had hold of his father's hand. However, he slung 
his skates over his shoulder, and shoved his hands 
very deep into his overcoat pockets, and began to 
whistle very loud, and walk just as fast as his tired 
legs would let him. 

He had gone perhaps half of the way home, 
when suddenly he thought he heard some one call- 
ing, "Tom, Tom!" 

I tell you he stopped short, and his heart was 
right up in his throat, as he looked about him in 
every direction. But as he could not see any one, 
he made up his mind that it must have been the 
ice cracking in the brook, or some belated squirrel 
taking a lonely supper in the trees. So he started 
off again, whistling louder than ever. 

" Tom, Tom," called the same voice. And this 
time it was so distinct and so near that he thought 
some one must be speaking to him from the ground. 
He looked down, and there on the white snow, at 
his feet, clearly seen in the soft moonlight, was a 
little man not more than six inches high, with a 
long white beard that reached to his knees. 

He was dressed in a beautiful flowing robe, made 
all of Autumn leaves, and he had on his feet the 
cunningest little boots, cut out of hickory nuts, and 
a jaunty cap of snow-bird's feathers, and on the cap 
a tiny crown that glistened and sparkled with frozen 



dew-drops ; while in his hand he carried for a 
sceptre a sweet-briar thorn. 

Tom gazed at him in utter bewilderment, and 
rubbed his eyes and thought it must be a dream ; 
but there the little fellow stood, with a merry 
twinkle in his eye, and a right cheery ring in his 
clear, shrill voice, as he beckoned to Tom and sang : 

" O Tommy ! O Tummy 1 don'c stand there and shake ; 
But follow me quick and your fortune you '11 make ; 
Of all Christmas fairies I 'm chief and I 'm king. 
And 't is I and my elfins the church bells who ring. 
We climb the steep steeple with laughter and song. 
And merrily spring on the ponderous gong ; 
Then with a ' heave-ho' the huge clapper we raise, 
And thus gleefully hail the gladdest of days. 
But my moonbeam is waiting; for, Tom, you must know, 
That when king-fairies ride, on moonbeams they go. 
So Tom, you youngrascal, don'tstand there and shake, 
But follow me quick and your fortune you '11 make." 

Beckoning again, the elfin king started off 
through the woods, and Tom, who by this time 
had almost recovered from his fright, followed after 
as fast as he could. Several times he lost sight of 
his little majesty, and was about to turn back, but 
each time he would hear the shrill voice just ahead 
of him calling, "Tom, Tom," and then his royal 
highness would come shimmering back, and tell 
him to hurry along. At length they reached a lit- 
tle hollow under a couple of old oak trees, where 
the snow had drifted two or three feet deep. 
"Wait a minute," said the elf, and disappeared. 
Our hero waited and waited, when, just as he was 
about to give it all up and go home, he saw king 
fairy's dew-drop crown appear out of a hole in the 
snow-crust that he had not before noticed. "Come 
now," said the tiny monarch, " and see the fairies' 
Christmas tree." So Tom got down on his hands 
and knees and looked into the hole, and oh ! what 
a magnificent sight was before his eyes ! A broad 
flight of stairs, cut in the soft snow, led down into 
a large square hall with arched corridors on every 
side. At the side opposite the stairway the king 
sat on his throne, which was beautifully carved, in 
fantastic shapes, from a single huge icicle ; while a 
hundred little fellows, even smaller than their lord, 
danced gaily on the moss-covered floor, while, with 
shrill piping voices they sang a weird melody. 
Right in the centre stood a miniature hemlock tree, 
lighted, Tom knew not how, but so brilliantly that 
the diamonds, and rubies, and precious stones of 
all sorts with which the tree was loaded, glistened 
till Tom's eyes were fairly dazzled. Presently the 
king waived his briar-thorn sceptre, and as soon as 
silence was restored, addressed his subjects: — 
" Most mighty and magnanimous people," he said, 
" children of the moonlight, offspring of the snow- 
flake ! On this our Christmas eve, I have, accord- 



I IO 



THE ELVES GIFT. 



[January, 



ing to our time-honored "custom, brought here one 
little boy to share our sports and to receive a token 
of the fairies' kindness. Make haste and bear aloft 
the appointed gift." 

Upon this about twenty of them, after bowing low- 
before the throne, skipped off down one of the side 
corridors, but immediately returned, drawing after 
them a most beautiful hand sled — all- carved and 
painted with exquisite taste, but no larger than an 



to please him, he began to look sour and grumble, 
" Is that all?" The words had hardly passed his 
lips when the cord of his new sled slipped from his 
hands ; the sled grew small in a twinkling, and he 
had barely time to see the fairies hurrying back 
with it into the palace of snow, when a great thick 
cloud came over the moon, and in the darkness he 
began to feel a multitude of little pinches and 
pricks in feet and legs, as if a whole bee-hive had 




NOW THE LITTLE FELLOWS HAD TO TUG AND PULL.' 



oyster shell ; and as they came merrily on, with 
many a jest and laugh, the others clapped their 
hands and shouted joyously from very gladness and 
kindness of heart. 

When they had climbed the stairs and passed 
through the entrance out to where Tom was 
now standing, the sled began suddenly to grow, 
and grow, until in a few moments, it was quite 
large enough for any boy to use. And now the little 
fellows had to tug and pull until they were red in 
the face, but the}- only seemed to enjoy it the more ; 
and struggling manfully on, placed the golden cord 
in Tom's hand with a right cheery "Merry Christ- 
mas. " 

Now, Tom was, in most respects, an unusually 
good boy ; but, as you have seen, he had one very 
serious fault : he was never satisfied with any thing 
that was given to him, but always wanted "some- 
thing more." And so, now, instead of being grate- 
ful to the kind little elves, who had taken such pains 



broken loose, and a wasp or two besides, while a 
chorus of angry voices sang : 

" Pinch him, and twitch him, and prick him with pins. 
And jump on his toes and hammer his shins. 
Send him home to his mother all tired and sore. 
For Tom Graspen to-night has been asking for more. 
These punishing pinches he '11 never forget, 
But be thankful hereafter for what he can get." 

How Tom reached home and got into his warm 
bed he hardly knew himself, but he woke up al- 
most another boy on the bright Christmas morning. 
Everything charmed him. His presents were "just 
the thing," and his best friends were astonished to 
see him so thoroughly satisfied. In short, ever 
afterwards, when he felt inclined to grumble, the 
thought of the fairy sled and those pricks and 
pinches would change his sour looks into a smile of 
thankfulness. 

As for the elves, when their king saw how disap- 



i8?4-l 



THE TRANSFORMED STOCKINGS. 



I II 



pointed they were at Tom's bad 
behavior, he gave them permis- 
sion to disguise themselves as little 
boys, and take their pockets full 
of gold to a poor cottager and his 
wife who lived on the edge of the 
great forest. 

"Great Land!" cried the de- 
lighted wife, as the elves skipped 
away from the house. " Them 
children, wherever they come from, 
was all lighted up with Christ- 
mas! " And her goodman thought 
he heard far-away voices singing : 

" Tom, Tom was not content, 
So to a better man we went. 
Hi and a-ho, it is well to go 
With welcome gifts 
To the poor and low- 
Ly — ah — ly — ah ! 




THE TRANSFORMED STOCKINGS. 

(.4 Poem in tivo parts t with Illustrations by the port.) 

By Master Sam Ouimby. 



,>% 



Wmi SI 





Part I. 

CHRISTMAS EVE. 

Little children in their bed, 

Both their stockings on the wall ; 

Not a thought disturbs their dreams- 
That is, if they dream at all. 



Pari 11. 

christmas morning. 

When the Christmas morning comes, 
Both the children bounce from bed - 

<Wh ee, -en- ! " 

That was all the children said. 



I 12 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE B E EN EX PECT E D. 



[January, 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



By Frank R. Stockton. 



Chapter VI. 



TONV STRIKES OUT. 



THERE was no doubt about it; something was 
moving. There was a rise in the ground a short 
distance in front of the turkey-blind, and a little 
patch of dark sky was visible between the trees. 
Across this bit of sky something dark was slowly 
passing. 

"Ye kin see 'most anything in the darkest 
night," whispered Tony, " ef ye kin only git the 
sky behind it. But that's no turkey." 

" What do you think it is?" said Harry, softly. 
" It's big enough for a turkey." 

"Too big," said Tony. "Let's git after it. 
You slip along the path, and I '11 go round ahead 
of it. Feel yer way, and do n't make no noise if 
ye run agin anything. And mind this " — and 
here Tony spoke in one of the most impressive of 
whispers — "don't you fire till yer dead certain what 
it is." 

With this Tony slipped away into the darkness, 
and Harry, grasping his gun, set out to feel his 
way. He felt his way along the path for a short 
time, and then he felt his way out of it. Then he 
crept into a low, soft place, full of ferns, and out of 
that he carefully felt his way into a big bush, where 
he knocked off his hat. When he found his hat, 
which took him some time, he gradually worked 
himself out into a place where the woods were a little 
more open, and there he caught another glimpse 
of the sky just at the top of the ridge. There was 
something dark against the sky, and Harry watched 
it for a long time. At last, as it did not move at 
all, he came to the conclusion that it must be a 
bush, and he was entirely correct. For an hour 
or two he quietly crept among the trees, hoping 
he would either find the thing that was moving or 
get back to the turkey-blind. Several times some- 
thingthathe was sure was an " old har," as hares are 
often called in Virginia, rushed out of the bushes 
near him; and once he heard a quick rustling 
among the dead leaves that sounded as if it were 
made by a black snake, but it might as well have 
been a Chinese pagoda on wheels, for all he could 
see of it. At last he became very tired, and sat 
down to rest with his back against a big tree. 
There he soon began to nod, and, without the 
slightest intention of doing an} r thing of the kind, he 
went to sleep, and slept just as soundly as if he had 
been in his bed at home. And this was not at all 



surprising, considering the amount of walking and 
creeping that he had done that day and night. 

When he awoke it was daylight. He sprang to 
his feet and found he was very stiff in the legs, but 
that did not prevent him from running this way and 
that to try and find some place in the woods with 
which he was familiar. Before long he heard what 
he thought was something splashing in water, and, 
making his way towards the sound, he pushed out 
on the bank of Crooked Creek. 

The creek was quite wide at this point, and, out 
near the middle of it, he saw Tony's head. The 
turkey -hunter was swimming hand -over- hand, 
"dog-fashion," for the shore. Behind him was a 
boat, upside down, which seemed just on the point 
of sinking out of sight. 

" Hel-low, there!" cried Harry; "what's the 
matter, Tony? " 

Tony never answered a word, but spluttered and 
puffed, and struck out slowly but vigorously for the 
bank. 

" Wait a minute," cried Harry, wildly excited, 
" I'll reach you a pole." 

But Tony did not wait, and Harry could find no 
pole. When he turned around from his hurried 
search among the bushes, the turkey-hunter had 
found bottom, and was standing with his head out 
of water. But the bottom was soft and muddy, and 
he flopped about dolefully when he attempted to 
walk to the bank. Harry reached his gun out to- 
wards him, but Tony, with a quick jerk of his arm, 
motioned it away. 

" I 'd rather be drownded than shot," he splut- 
tered. " I do n't want no gun-muzzles pinted at me. 
Take a hold of that little tree, and then reach me 
your other hand." 

Harry seized a young tree that grew on the very 
edge of the bank, and as soon as Tony managed to 
flop himself near enough, Harry leaned over and 
took hold of his outstretched hand and gave him a 
jerk forward with all his strength. Over went 
Tony, splash on his face in the water, and Harry 
came very near going in head-foremost on top of 
him. But he recovered himself, and, not having 
loosed his grip of Tony's hand, he succeeded, with 
a mighty effort, in dragging the turkey-hunter's 
head out of the water ; and, after a desperate strug- 
gle with the mud, Tony managed to get on his feet 
again. 

" I do n't know," said he, blowing the water out 
of his mouth and shaking his dripping head, "but 



I674-J 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



113 



what I 'd 'most as lieve be shot as ducked that way. 
Don't you jerk so hard again. Hold steady and 
let me pull." 

Harry took a still firmer grasp of the tree and 
" held steady," while Tony gradually worked his 
feet through the sticky mud until he reached the 
bunk, and then he laboriously clambered on shore. 

" How did it happen ? " said Harry : " How did 
you get in the water ? " 

"Boat upsot," said Tony, seating himself, all 
dripping with water and mud, upon the bank. 

"' Why, you came near being drowned," said 
Harry, anxiously. 

"Mo I didn't," answered Tony, pulling a big 



creek till I got opposite John Walker's cabin, 
where it 's narrow, and there 's a big tree a-lyin' 
across — " 

" Still following that thing?" interrupted Harry. 

" Yes," said Tony; " an' then I got over on the 
tree and kep' down the creek — " 

" Still following? " asked Harry. 

" Yes ; and I got a long ways down, and had one 
bad tumble, too, in a dirty little gulley ; and it was 
pretty nigh day when I turned to come back. An' 
then when I got up here I thought I would look 
fur John Walker's boat — fur I knew he kept it tied 
up somewhere down this way — and save myself all 
that walk. I found the ole boat — " 




THE TURKEY-HUNTER IN TROUBLE. 



bunch of weeds and rubbing his legs with them. 
" I kin swim well enough, but a fellar has a rough 
time in the water with big boots on and his pockets 
full o' buck-shot." 

"Couldn't you empty the shot out?" asked 
Harry. 

" And lose it all? " asked Tony, with an aggriev- 
ed expression upon his watery face. 

"But how did it happen?" Harry earnestly in- 
quired : " What were you doing in the boat ? " 

Tony did not immediately answer. He rubbed 
at his legs, and then he tried to wipe his face with 
his wet coat-sleeve, but finding that only made 
matters worse, he accepted Harry's offer of his 
handkerchief, and soon got his countenance into 
talking order. 

"Why, you see," said he, "I kept on up the 



"And how did it upset?" said Harry. 

" Humph !" said Tony ; " easy enough. I hadn't 
nuthin to row with but a bit o' pole, and I got a 
sorter cross a-gettin' along so slow, and so I stood 
up and gin a big push, and one foot slipped an' 
over she went." 

" And in you went ! " said Harry. 

"Yes — in I went. I don't see what ever put 
John Walker up to makin' sich a boat as that. It 's 
jist the meanest, lopsidedest, low-borndedst boat I 
ever did see." 

"I don't wonder you think so," said Harry, 
laughing; "but if I were you, I'd go home as 
soon as I could, and get some dry clothes." 

" That's so," said Tony, rising; " these feel like 
the inside of an eel-skin." 

" Oh, Tony ! " said Harry, as they walked along 



"4 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED 



[Jani 



up the creek, " did you find out what that thing 
was?" 

"Yes, I did," answered Tony. 

" And what was it ? " 

" It was Captain Caseby." 

" Captain Caseby ? " cried Harry. 

"Yes; jist him, and nuthin else. It was his 
head we seen agin the sky, as he was a-walkin' on 
the other side of that little ridge." 

"Captain Caseby!" again, ejaculated Harry in 
his amazement. 

" Yes, sir ! " said Tony ; " an' I 'm glad I found 
it out before I crossed the creek, for my gun was n't 
no further use, an' it was only in my way, so I left 
it in the bushes up here. Ef it had n't been for 
that, the ole rifle would ha' been at the bottom of 
the creek." 

" But what was Captain Caseby doing here in 
the woods at night? " asked Harry. 

" Dunno," said Tony ; " I jist follered him till I 
made sure he was n't a-huntin' for my turkey-blind, 
and then I let him go 'long. His business wasn't 
no consarn o' mine." 

When Tony and Harry had nearly reached the 
village, who should they meet, at a cross-road in 
the woods, but Mr. Loudon and Captain Caseby ! 

" Ho, ho ! " cried the Captain, "where on earth 
have you been? Here I've been a-hunting you 
all night." 

"You have, have you?" said Tony, with a 
chuckle; "and Harry and I 've been a-huntin' you 
all night, too." 

Everybody now began to talk at once. Harry's 
lather was so delighted to find his boy again that 
he did not care to explain anything, and he and 
Harry walked off together. 

But Captain Caseby told Tony all about it. How 
he, Mr. Loudon and old Mr. Wagner had set out 
to look for Harry ; how Mr. Wagner soon became 
so tired that he had to give up, and go home, and 
how Mr. Loudon had gone through the woods to 
the north, while he kept down by the creek, search- 
ing on both sides of the stream, and how they had 
both walked, and walked, and walked all night, 
and had met at last down by the river. 

" How did you manage to meet Mr. Loudon ? " 
asked Tony. 

" I heard him hollerin," said the Captain. " He 
hollered pretty near all night, he told me." 

" Why didn't you holler? " Tony asked. 

"Oh, I never exercise my voice in the night 
air," said the Captain. " It 's against my rules." 

" Well, you 'd better break your rules next time 
you go out in the woods where Harry is." said 
the turkey-hunter, "or he'll pop you over for 
a turkey or a musk-rat. He 's a sharp shot, I kin 
tell ye." 






" You don't really mean he was after me last 
night with a gun ! " exclaimed Captain Caseby. 

" He truly was," said Tony ; "he was a-trackin 
you his Sunday best. It was bad for you that it 
was so dark that he could n't see what you was 
but it might have been worse for ye if it hadn't 
been so dark that he could n't find ye at all." 
. "I'm glad I didn't know it," said the Captain, 
■ earnestly; "thoroughly and completely glad 1 
did n't know it. I should have yelled all the skin 1 
off my throat, if I 'd have known he was after me 
with a gun." 

After Harry had been home an hour or two, 
and Kate had somewhat recovered from her trans- 
ports of joy, and everybody in the village had 
heard all about everything that had happened, and 
Captain Caseby had declared, in the bosom of his 
family, that he 'd never go out into the woods again 
at night without keeping up a steady "holler," 
Harry remembered that he had left his sumac bag 
somewhere in the woods. Hard work for a whole 
day and a night, and nothing to show for it ! 
Rather a poor prospect for Aunt Matilda. 

Chapter VII. 

AUNT MATILDA'S CHRISTMAS. 

When Harry and Kate held council that after- 
noon, their affairs looked a little discouraging. 
Kate's sumac was weighed and it was only seven 
pounds ! Seven whole cents, if they took it out in 
trade, or five and a quarter cents, as Kate calcu- 
lated, if they took cash. A woman as large as 
Aunt Matilda could not be supported on that kind 
of an income, it was plain enough. 

But our brave boy and girl were not discouraged. 
Harry went after his bag the next day, and found it 
with about ten pounds of leaves in it. Then, for a 
week or two, he and his sister worked hard and 
sometimes gathered as much as twenty-five pounds 
of leaves in a day. But the)' had their bad days, 
when there was a great deal of walking and very 
little picking. 

And then, in due course of time, school began 
and the sumac season was at an end, for the leaves 
are not merchantable after they begin to turn red, 
although they are then a great deal prettier to 
look at. 

But when Harry went out early in the morning, 
and on Saturdays, and shot hares and partridges, 
and Kate began to sell her chickens, of which she 
had twenty-seven (eighteen died natural deaths, or 
were killed by weasels during the summer), they 
found that they made more money than they could 
have made by sumac gathering. 

" It's a good deal for you two to do for that old 
woman," said Captain Caseby, one day. 



■8 7 < I 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



115 



. "But, didn't we promise to do it?" said Miss 
Kate, bravely. " We'd do twice as much, if there 
were two of her. " 

It was very fortunate, however, that there were 
not two of her. 

Sometimes they had extraordinary luck. Early 
one November morning Harry was out in the 
woods and caught sight of a fat wild turkey. 
Bang ! — one dollar. 

That was enough to keep Aunt Matilda for a week. 

At least it ought to have kept her. But there 

was something wrong somewhere. Every week it 

cost more and more to keep the old colored woman 

. in what Harry called " eating material." 

" Her appetite must be increasing," said Harry ; 
"she's eaten two pecks of meal this week." 

'• I do n't believe it," said Kate; "she couldn't 
,, do it. I believe 'she has company. " 
And this turned out to be true. 
On inquiry they found that Uncle Braddock was 
>, in the habit of taking his meals with Aunt Matilda, 
sometimes three times a day. Now, Uncle Brad- 
dock had a home of his own where he could get his 
meals if he chose to go after them, and Harry re- 
monstrated with him on his conduct. 

" Why, ye see, Mah'sr Harry," said the old man, 
"she's so drefful lonesome down dar all by she- 
self, and sometimes it 's a-rainin' an' a long way fur 
1 me to go home and git me wrapper all wet jist fur 
< one little meal o' wittles. And when I see what 
■ you all is a-doin' fur her, I feels dat I oughter try 
, and do somethin' fur her, too, as long as I kin ; an* 
I can't expect to go about much longer, Mah'sr 
Harry, de ole wrapper's pretty nigh gin out." 

"I don't mind your taking your meals there, now 
and then," said Harry; "but I don't want you to 
live there. We can't afford it." 

"All right, Mah'sr Harry," said Uncle Braddock, 
and after that he never came to Aunt Matilda's to 
meals more than five or six times a week. 

And now Christmas, always a great holiday with 

il the negroes of the South, was approaching, and 

Harry and Kate determined to try and give Aunt 

Matilda extra good living during Christmas week, 

. and to let her have company every day if she 

wanted it. 

Harry had a pig. He got it in the Spring when 
i it was very small, and when its little tail was scarcely 
long enough to curl. There was a story about his 
: getting this pig. 

He and some other boys had been out walkino- 
and several dogs went along with them. The dogs 
chased a cat — a beautiful, smooth cat, that belonged 
to old Mr. Truly Matthews. The cat put off at the 
top of her speed, which was a good deal better than 
any speed the dogs could show, and darted up a 
tree right in front of her master's house. The doo-s 



surrounded the tree and barked as if they expected 
to bark the tree down. One little fuzzy dog, with 
short legs and hair-all over his eyes, actually jumped 
into a low crotch and the boys thought he was going 
to try to climb the tree. If he had ever reached 
the cat he would have been very sorry he had n't 
stayed at home, for she was a good deal bigger 
than he was. Harry and his friends endeavored to 
drive the dogs away from the tree, but it was of no 
use. Even kicks and blows only made them bark 
the more. Directly out rushed Mr. Truly Matthews, 
as angry as he could be. He shouted and scolded 
at the boys for setting their dogs on his cat, and 
then he kicked the dogs out of his yard in less time 
than you could count seventy-two. He was very 
angry, indeed, and talked about the shocking con- 
duct of the boys to everybody in the village. He 
would listen to no explanations or excuses. 

Harry was extremely sorry that Mr. Matthews 
was so incensed against him, especially as he knew 
there was no cause for it, and he was talking about 
it to Kate one day when she exclaimed ; 

"I'll tell you what will be sure to pacifiy Mr. 
Matthews, Harry. He has a lot of little pigs that 
he wants to sell. Just you go and buy one of them 
and see if he isn't as good-natured as ever, when 
he sees your money." 

Harry took the advice. He had a couple of 
dollars, and with them he bought a little pig, the 
smallest of the lot ; and Mr. Matthews, who was 
very much afraid he could not find purchasers for 
all his pigs, was as completely pacified as Kate 
thought he would be. 

Harry took his property home, and all through 
the Summer and Fall the little pig ran about the 
yard and the fields and the woods, and ate acorns, 
— and sweet potatoes, and turnips when he could 
get a chance to root them up with his funny little 
twitchy nose, — and grunted and slept in the sun ; 
and about the middle of December he had grown 
so big that Harry sold him for eleven dollars. 
Here was quite a capital for Christmas. 

" I can't afford to spend it all on Aunt Matilda," 
said Harry to his mother and Kate, " for I have 
other things to do with my money. But she 's 
bound to have a good Christmas, and we '11 make 
her a present besides." 

Kate was delighted with this idea and immedi- 
ately began to suggest all sorts of things for the 
present. If Harry chose to buy anything that she 
could " make up," she would go right to work at it. 
But Harry could not think of anything that would 
suit exactly, and neither could Kate, nor their 
mother: and when Mr. Loudon was taken into 
council, at dinner time, he could suggest nothing 
but an army blanket — which suggestion met with 
no favor at all. 



n6 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



[JanuaL 



At last Mr. Loudon advised that they should ask 
Aunt Matilda what she would like to have for a 
present. 

'" There's no better way of suiting her than that,'' 
said he. 

So Harry and Kate went down to the old wo- 
man's cabin that afternoon, after school, and asked 
her. 

Aunt Matilda didn't hesitate an instant. 

"Efyou chill'en is really a-goin' to give me a 
present, there ain't nothin' I 'd rather have than a 
Chrismis tree." 

"A Christmas tree!" cried Harry and Kate, 
both bursting out laughing. 

"Yes, indeed, chill'en. Ef ye give me anything, 
give me a good big fiery Chrismis tree, like you 
all had, year 'fore las'. " 

Two years before, Harry and Kate had had their 
last Christmas tree. There were no younger chil- 
dren, and these two were now considered to have 
outgrown that method of celebrating Christmas. 
But they had missed their tree last year — missed it 
very much. 

And now Aunt Matilda wanted one. It was the 
very thing ! 

"Hurrah!" cried Harry; "you shall have it. 
Hurrah for Aunt Matilda's Christmas tree ! " 

" Hurrah ! " cried Kate; "won't it be splendid? 
Hurrah ! " 

" Hurrah ! " said Uncle Braddock, who was just 
coming up to the cabin door, but he did not shout 
very loud, and nobody heard him. 

"Hurrah! I wonder what dey's all hurrahin' 
about ? " he said to himself. 

Harry and Kate had started off to run home with 
the news, but Aunt Matilda told the old man all 
about it, and when he heard there was to be a 
Christmas tree, he was just as glad as anybody. 

When it became generally known that Aunt 
Matilda was to have a Christmas tree, the people 
of the neighborhood took a great interest in the 
matter. John Walker and Dick Ford, two colored 
men of the vicinity, volunteered to get the tree. 
But when they went out into the woods to cut 
it, eighteen other colored people, big and little, 
followed them, some to help and some to give 
advice. 

A very fine tree was selected. It was a pine, ten 
feet high, and when they brought it into Aunt 
Matilda's cabin, they could not stand it upright, for 
her ceiling was rather low. 

When Harry and Kate came home from school 
they were rather surprised to see so big a tree, 
but it was such a fine one that they thought the)' 
must have it. After some consideration it was 
determined to erect it in a deserted cabin, near 
by. which had. no upper floor, and was high enough 



to allow the tree to stand up satisfactorily. T!s 
was, indeed, an excellent arrangement, for it w , 
better to keep the decoration of the Christmas tr 
a secret from Aunt Matilda until all was coi 
pleted. 

The next day was a holiday, and Harry and Kq 
went earnestly to work. A hole was dug in the cl; 
floor of the old cabin, and the tree planted firm 
therein. It was very firm, indeed, for a little ccl 
ored boy named Josephine's Bobby climbed near! 
to the topmost branch, without shaking it ve: 
much. For four or five days the work of decoratif ' 
the tree went on. Everybody talked about it, a gre; 
many laughed at it, and nearly everybody seeme 
inclined to give something to hang upon its brand 
es. Kate brought a large box containing the decor; 
tions of her last Christmas tree, and she and Han- 
hung sparkling balls, and golden stars, and silve 
fishes, and red and blue paper angels, and cand 
swans, and sugar pears, and glittering things of a 
sorts, shapes, and sizes upon the boughs. Harr 
had a step-ladder, and Dick Ford and five colorei 
boys held it firmly while he stood on it and tied oi 
the ornaments. Very soon the neighbors begai 
to send in their contributions. Mrs. Loudon gav 
a stout woolen dress, which was draped over a lowe 
branch ; while Mr. Loudon, who was not to be 
diverted from his original idea, sent an arm' 
blanket, which Kate arranged around the root ot 
the tree, so as to look as much as possible like gra\ 
moss. Mr. Darby, who kept the store, sent a largt 
paper bag of sugar and a small bag of tea, which 
were carefully hung on lower branches. Miss Jant 
Davis thought she ought to do something, and she 
contributed a peck of sweet potatoes, which, each 
tied to a string, were soon dangling from the 
branches. Then Mr. Truly Matthews, who did 
not wish to be behind his neighbors in generosity, 
sent a shoulder of bacon, which looked quite mag- 
nificent as it hung about the middle of the tree. 
Other people sent bars of soap, bags of meal, pack- 
ages of smoking tobacco, and flannel petticoats. A 
pair of shoes was contributed, and several pairs of 
stockings, which latter were filled with apples and 
hickory nuts by the considerate Kate. Several of 
the school children gave sticks of candy : and old 
Mrs. Sarah Page, who had nothing else to spare, 
brought a jug of molasses, which was suspended 
near the top of the tree. Kate did not fancy the 
appearance of the jug, and she wreathed it with 
strings of glittering glass balls ; and the shoulder of 
bacon she stuck full of red berries and holly leaves. 
Harry contributed a bright red handkerchief for 
Aunt Matilda's head, and Kate gave a shawl which 
was yellower than a sunflower, if such a thing could 
be. And Harry bore the general expenses of the 
" extras," which were not trifling. 



lS 7 4-] 



P E T E . 



117 



When Christmas eve arrived everybody came to 
see Aunt Matilda's Christmas tree. Kate and 
Harry were inside superintending the final arrange- 
ments, and about fifty or sixty persons, colored and 
vvhite, were gathered around the closed door of the 
Did cabin. When all was ready Aunt Matilda made 
her appearance, supported on either side by Dick 
Ford and John Walker, while Uncle Braddock, in 
his many-colored dressing-gown, followed close 
behind. Then the door was opened, and Aunt Ma- 
tilda entered, followed by as many of the crowd as 
could get in. It was certainly a scene of splendor. 
A wood fire blazed in the fire-place at one end of the 
cabin, while dozens of tallow candles lighted up the 



tree. The gold and silver stars glistened, the 
many-colored glass balls shone among the green 
pine boughs ; the shoulder of bacon glowed like a 
bed of flowers, while the jug of molasses hung calm 
and serene surrounded by its glittering beads. A 
universal buzz of approbation and delight arose. 
No one had ever seen such a Christmas tree before. 
Every bough and every branch bore something 
useful as well as ornamental. 

As for Aunt Matilda, for several moments she 
remained speechless with delight. At last she 
exclaimed : 

" Laws-a-massey ! It's wuth while being good 
for ninety-five years to git such a tree at las'." 



( To be continued.) 



THE LITTLE GIRL WHO WOULD N'T EAT CRUSTS. 



The awfulest times that ever could be 
They had with a bad little girl of Dundee, 

Who never would finish her crust. 
In vain they besought her, 
And patiently taught her, 

And told her she must. 

Her grandma would coax. 
And so would the folks, 
And tell her the sinning 
Of such a beginning. 
But no, she would n't. 
She could n't, she should n't, 
She 'd have them to know — 
So they might as well go. 



Now what do you think soon came to pass '< 
This little girl of Dundee, alas! 
Who wouldn't take crusts in the regular. way, 
Sat down to a feast one summer's day ; 
And what did the people that little girl give. 
But a dish of bread pudding — as sure as I live ! 




PETE. 



By L. G 



M. 



" I'M Pete. An' I 'm a newsboy. This story 
lin't writ by me, coz I can't write. Nor I can't 
■J-ead, so if anything 's took down wrong, it won't 
he my fault. 

" A gentlemun in one of our offices says to me : 
You tell me the story of your young un, an' I '11 



take it down, and git it printed in St. Nicholas.' 
An' he says to begin at the werry beginnin', w'en 
I fust seed my young un — a little chap wot I foun' 
arter his father died, an' he had n't nothin' but a 
fiddle in the world. When I fust goes up to him 
in the Park, down to City Hall, and asks him to 



n8 



PETE 



[Janua 



play, he takes his stick an' pulls it acrost an' acrost 
the strings, an' makes the wust n'ise ye ever heerd 
in yer life. He felt so took down when I laughed 
that I asked him, serious, to keep at it, till he 
he says, lookin' up inter my face, drefful disap- 
pinted, ' They 's awful n'ises, ain't they ? ' I says, 
' Wal, no ; I 've heerd the cats make ten times 
wuss ones nor that. I guess it '11 come some time 
if ye keep a tryin',' an' it cheered him heaps. 

" So he hugged up his fiddle an' we started 
down to the corner. An' I says, ' Were air ye 
goin' ? ' An' he says, ' Now'eres.' An' I says, 
'Don't ye live now'eres?' An' he says, 'No.' 
An' I says they was n't no use in it, fur he could n't 
no more take keer of hisself than a baby ken, an' 
he 'd have to live with me. An' he says, ' Will 
you take care o' me?' An" I says, 'Yes, I will.' 
An' that 's the way he come to be my young un. 

' ' I axed him wot was his name, an' I can 't tell 
yer it, fur it was one o' them blamed furrin 
names, an' I could n't never get it right, so I al- 
ius called him jes ' Young Un.' An' he axed me wot 
was my name, an' I telled him, ' Pete,' an' then 
we knowed each other. 

" ' Were do ye live, Pete ? ' he says ; an' I sez, 
' Wal, I live roun' — jes about roun' — here, I guess. 
Ye see, I moved this mornin'.' An' he says, 
'Were did ye move to ? ' An' that was a stunner. 
I war n't a newsboy then, ye know ; I was on'y a 
loafer. But I seed a airy ; so I says, ' Wal, we '11 
wait till all the lights is put out down stairs in 
this house, an' then we 11 live here ternight. But 
we mus' go fust an' git our bed afore it's dark,' I 
says. So we walks roun' to a lot w'ere they was 
buildin', an' he waits wile I digs out the bed from 
under a pile o' stones. Yer see, I had to bury it 
in the mornin's fur fear o' rag-pickers, 'cause it 
was a werry good bed an' comf'table, 'specially in 
airies. ' Wot was it ? ' It was a ole piece o' carpet 
wot I foun' in front uv a house wunst arter some 
people moved away from it, an' it was ez long ez — 
ez long ez you air, sir, an' longer, too. I takes it 
under my arm, an' the young un hoi's on to my 
other han' an' we finds the airy agin. But we has 
to loaf roun' a good wile 'fore the lights is put out. 
Wen it 's all dark we goes down under the steps, 
an' I rolls up the carpet kind o'loose an' tells him 
ter crawl inside it. ' Will fher' be room fur the 
fiddle, too?' he says; ' coz, if ther' won't I don't 
mind, I ken sleep outside. Pete.' An he looks so 
worrited that I sings out, ' Of course, ther' will ! 
Do yer think I 'd leave the fiddle out ter cotch his 
death o' cold an' be laid up an' tooken to the orspi- 
tal?' An' that makes him laugh, an' then he 
crawls in fust, an' I crawls in last, an' then, theer 
we was, all three of us, squeedged up comf'table 
together. 



' ' This was a long time ago, afore I was a new 
boy, w'en I was tryin' to sot up a broom at tl 
crossin's ; but brooms was hard to git. We trie 
all next day beggin', an' on'y got two cents, an' v 
was so cold an' hungry that I says to young u; 
' Let 's begin again in the mornin', an' let's have 
treat to-night. So we did ; an' we had reg'lar goc 
fun goin' to a shop to buy our supper, 'stead o' be; 
gin' it. I makes him an' the baker woman laug 
axin' her to guv me ' the most she can of anythin 
for two cents.' An', I tell ye wot, she was a jolfl 
woman, too, for she guv us a lot o' bread, an' the 
she told us to hold on a bit, an' she went intj 
another room an' bringed us out in her apron a Id 
o' splendid stale goodies an' some ellegant bits <1 
sugar wot was broke off a real weddin' cake. Shi 
did somethin' else, too. W'en the young un look 
ed up at her an' says, ' You 's good ! ' an' tuk hoi 
of her gownd, she stooped down suddent, an' sh 
put her two arms roun' him an' kissed /lim ! Ar 
he dropped his fiddle — think o' that ! He droppet 
Ids fiddle, wot he never let go of night or day afore 
An' he put his arms roun' her neck an' hid his fac 
agin her. An' she says to me, ' Be good to him 
for he 's littler nor you. ' An' he sings out, ' He 
good to me ! They ain't nobody so good as Pet 
in the whole world!' Then he cotches hold o' m 
an' we picks up the fiddle, an' the woman open 
the door for us, an' tells us not to forgit weer th 
shop is, but to come to her w'en we 's stuck an 
can 't git no supper. But I don't know wot mad 
her stan' at the door an' cry whilst she was lookin 
arter us. We did n't do nothin' to make her cry 
An' I don't know wot made the young un cry 
nuther. An' — bust me ! I don't know wot made 
me 'most up an' cry, too. I wonder wot it was ? 

" But that ain't wot I was goin' to tell yer aboul 
Santy Klaus, on'y it was just that time we used tc 
have lots o' fun lookin' in the shop windies seein 
the Chrismus trees an' things. An' wot tickled 
him more nor anything else was the Santy Klauses 
with the bags o' toys an' things piled on their 
backs. He axed me wunst ' Did I b'lieve they was 
reefy a Santy Klaus ?' B'lieve it ! Do I ever in my 
life see one o' them images in the windies now 
'thout shakin' my fist at him ? The ole cheat ! 
Ye better b'lieve I don't ! Wal, the night afore 
Chrismus we was sleepin' down to B. F. Harriman 
& Co's in a big packin' box full o' straw, wot 
they 'd left on the pavement, an' he says to me, 
' Pete, ain't this the night Santy Klaus comes an' 
puts things in children's stockin's wot 's hung up in 
the chimbley ? ' An' I says, ' I 've heerd somethin' 
'bout it, but I don't much b'lieve it, an' I never 
tried it.' An' he says, ' Pete, do ye think he'd 
come to this box ef we hanged up stockin's to the 
top of it? Will ye let's try, Pete?' An' I says, 



iS74-l 



PETE. 



II 9 



'Weer's the stockin's?' An' that was a stunner. 
■ An' he says, ' O. yes; we ain't got none. An' you 
: ain't got no shoes, nuther, Pete. Ain't yer feet 

cold ? ' he says. ' Ain't my feet cold? ' Did n't I 
. kick a shindy in a place in the gutter weer it was 
: frozed, to let him see if my feet was cold. I got 

him laughin' so he 'mos' choked hisself. Then he 



■■ : . I L'Iv'mii'i? 111 ," 11 '-' 1 '. 



liffijii 



liipiliiifi 



' says, ' I tell ye, Pete — let's hang up my shoes — one 
' for you an' one for me — an' let 's see if he'll come.' 
■ So, I says there was n't no harm in tryin', an' I 
: hung 'em up by the strings fas' to two nails wot 
1 stuck out. 'Cause, I thought, if Santy had a mind 

to come, theer they was. An' I stuffed the young 
! un's feet inter my cap an' fixed the straw, roun' 

him an' told him for to go to sleep fast ; an' he 

did, for we 'd walked a lot that day, an' his legs was 
1 werry small. But I kep' a watch to see if the ole 

feller 'd come or not. 

" Nights is awful long w'en ye try to keep awake. 
1 But, I was boun' to do it, an' I did till 'mos' morn- 

in', when I knowed it was n't no use. Fust I 

counted all the lamps I could, then I counted all 
1 the windies, an' then I fixed my eye on a big star, 
: an' every time he winked at me I winked back 
'■■ agin' to him. Then I beat chunes on the box to 

the young un's breathin' — for the)' was somethin' 







that creaked kinder in his chist, an' I could beat the 

chunes real easy, on'y I had to do it soft, for fear 

wakin' him. An' I kep' a watch on them two shoes, 

an' I thought of all the things I 'd ever wished for in 

my life, an' I wondered if Ole Santy 'd leave on top 

o' the box wot he could n't git into the shoes. 

Twicte I heerd a noise an', I thought, sure 'nuff, theer 

he was, an' I laid myself down quick, 

in' commenced a-snorin'. But it 

was n't him, an' he never come nigh 

the box; an' I knowed afore mornin' 

that he 'd never come if we 'd waited 

a hundred nights for him, an' that 

he was a sell ! Wunst I thought 

mebby it was true wot I 'd heerd 

'bout his leavin' empty the stockin's 

of bad children ; but he might a left 

my shoe empty an' I 'd b'lieved on 

him; but if he thought my young un 

was bad anyways, jes' let him or any 

one else say a word agin that young 

un an' I '11 — I '11 — wal, just you let 'cm 

try it — that 's all ! 

"I never thought of his bein' so- 
awful sorry next mornin', or I 'd a done 
somethin' — but w'en he waked up an' 
seen the shoes a-swingin' there with 
nuthin in 'em, an' I says, a-kickin' up 
my heels an' laughin' : ' It's all a sell, 
young un ! ' his face kinder shook 
itself all over, an', as hard as he tried, 
he could n't help his eyes a-cryin', an' 
he says, with the creakin' in his wice : 
' Then, we 's forgot ! Then they ain't 
nobody to look arter us ! They 
would n't be nobody to take keer of 
me, Pete, if you got lost ! ' An' 
then he bust. I tell ye, I never in 
all my life had to kick up so many shindies, an' 
laugh so hard, as I had to that time, to make that 
young un stop a-bustin ; an' he didn't stop a-shakin' 
his face an' squeedgin the tears back inter his eyes, 
not till I thought o' somethin'. I jumps up an' 
says : ' Look 'e here ! We did n't do it fair ! ' ' Do 
ye s'pose, Pete,' he says, 'it't bein' shoes an' not 
stockin's 'd make a difference ? ' ' No,' I says, ' but 
I guess Ole Santy has too much to do to git it all 
done in one night, an' mebby, if we hang the shoes 
out agin to-night, he '11 come ! ' Ye 'd ought to seen 
his face shine up w'en I says that. ' Do ye think 
so, Pete ? ' he says ; an' I says, square out, ' Yes, I 
do! ' an' I never lied sech a lie since I was borned. 
But I did n't keer for anything but to comfort him. 
an' I made up my mind that I was goin' to have 
somethin' in that theer shoe of his that night, if I 
had to tell a whopper. 

" So I tuk him to a ole musicianger wot lived up 



120 



P ETE. 



\ January 



in a attic, an' wot got to teachin' him a little some- 
times how to play a chune on the fiddle, an' I left 
him theer w'ile I went out by myself to look for 
somethin'. I tell ye, I stud at the crossin's an' 
watched the people with bundles to see if they'd 
drop somethin', an' I kep' my eye on people to see 
if I could n't git a cent somehow. I picked up a 
ole lady's muff fur her, an' a swell's cane, an' I 
•cotched a dorg between my legs an' held on to him 
to keep him from skeerin' a little gal, an' I held 
■open a 'bus door for a woman, an' I ran arter a 
gent's hat w'en the wind tuk it. An' wunst a lady 
dropped a ball an' a w'istle, an' w'en she didn't 
know it, an' I picked 'em up, it seemed as if I 
couldn't give em back. I follered her a good 
ways, feelin' an' feelin' 'em, an' lookin' an' look- 
in' at 'em, roun' an' roun', an' thinkin' how 
tickled the young un 'd be with 'em. -But I 
jest happened to think wot if he foun' out that 
/ put 'em in his shoe, an' axed me weer did I 
git 'em. W'en I thought of that, I walked as fast 
as I could, an' guv 'em back to the lady. I looked 
at her werry sharp, but she never guv me nothin'. 
An' nobody never guv me nothin', an' I had to take 
home the young un's supper, wot I begged at last, 
an' nothin' else. There he was a-waitin' for me. 
' It's 'mos' night, Pete,' he says, 'an' it'll soon be 
time to hang up the shoes agin, won't it ? ' An' he 
was feelin' so glad that he couldn't stop a-talkin'. 
' You's walked a long ways to-day, Pete,' he says; 
' have ye had a good time 'thout me ? ' An' I 
says I 'd had a jolly good time, but it was a lie. 
An' I had ter lie agin w'en he was n't goin' to eat 
anythin' till I did, an' I said I 'd had my supper. 

" Arter supper, I piled him into the box agin an' 
hung up the shoes. I waited till he was to sleep, 
an' then I went off agin to hunt. But I watched 
and watched, an' I waited an' waited, an' I couldn't 
find nothin' at all but a leetle piece of a branch wot 
was broke off from a Chrismus tree. It war n't no 
bigger nor my hat, but I tuk it home, an' w'en I 
got theer an' seen the young un sleepin' soun' an' 
kinder laughin' in his sleep, as if he seen Ole Santy 
Klaus with a whole bundle o' toys for him ; an' 
w'en I looked at on'y the leetle green thing in my 
hand, I come nigh bustin myself. But he moved, 
so I jest stuck the branch into his shoe an' crept 
into the straw alongside o' him. 

" I didn't sleep werry much, an' I woke up fust 
in the mornin', an' I waited for him to wake, 
'spectin' he'd bust agin w'en he seed his shoe an' 
nothin' but the green thing in it. But wot do ye 
think he did ? He waked up, an' he seed it, an' 
— he jumped right up an' sung out, a-shiverin' an' 
laughin', ' O Pete ! Look ! It is true ! They is 
a Santy Klaus ! See ! He had to go all roun' 
everywheer, an' w'en he got to you an' me, he 



hadn't only'this left. He put it into my shoe, but 
he meant it for you too. It's a sign, Pete ; it's a 
sign. We ain't forgot. They is somebody some- 
weers to take keer of us ! ' 

" That's wot he b'lieved, an' he allers stuck to it, 
an' kep' the green thing buttoned up in his jacket. 
An' he kep' it till we got stuck on account of his 
bein' took sick, an' went to the baker-woman's, an' 
she kep' us an' put him into a bed, an' would n't let 
us go, but she an' me took care of him. An' the 
musicianger come werry often to see him, an' learn 
him the chunes. An' he makes me sit on the bed 
aside of him. ' For,' he says, ' I wants you, Pete ; 
an' I wants you to put yer head down here, on the 
pillow, close to mine.' So I does it an' I hears him 
say : ' You 's werry tired, Pete. I guess you 's 
walked a hundred miles for me. An' oh, ain't it 
good, Pete, to be on a bed? — a real bed!' An' 
then he says, werry soft, ' Pete ! I feels somebody 
a-takin' keer of us ! Do you feel 'em ? ' An' I 
axes him, ' Is it the woman, young un ? ' An' he 
says, ' No. ' An' I axes, ' Is it the musicianger ? ' 
An' he says. ' No, Pete. They 's werry good, but 
I feels Somebody else, too. I don't know who it is, 
but I thinks I 'm finding 'em out, an' I '11 know 
werry soon, Pete — werry soon, indeed.' 

"An' they is one thing wot is queer: he says 
that so often that / kinder gets to b'lieve somethin' 
too. I don't know wot it is, 'cept that it ain't any- 
thing 'bout Santy Klaus ; but I believes somethin'. 
An' I 's sure of it, one mornin', w'en he 's sittin' 
up in bed, an' the woman's there, an' the musician- 
ger 's helpin' him to hold the fiddle, for he 's learned 
a chune at last, an' he wants to play it to me. He 
plays it werry soft, an' feeble, an' shaky, an' he has 
to stop sometimes to rest, but he plays it an' he 
won't guv it up till he comes to the end of it. 
Then he says : ' Pete, that 's my chune, an' its 
name is Home, Sweet Home. I used to think 
it meant home weer me an' fader an' this fiddle 
lived, an' here weer the woman lives, but it ain't — 
it's someweers else. An', Pete,' he says, huggin' 
of his fiddle, ' you must keep my Chrismus tree 
till till .' 

" You see, sir, the little chap was set on it that 
he was a-goin' — but he did n't go. A week from 
that day he took a turn, and mended faster 'n he 'd 
gone down. But he was alius kind o' saint-wise 
arter that, and kind o' got me to bein' so blamed 
putikular agin doin' wrong things that — that — well, 
you see, sir, it 's led me inter good, honest, steady 
bizness, and I don't look upon lyin' same as I used 
to, no how. As fur the young un hisself, sir, he 
was coaxed away agin his will an' my own, by the 
musicianger who 's been a-teachin' an' doin' so well 
by him, that, if you '11 believe me, sir, he 's soon 
goin' into a orkistry, my young un is." 



I 874-] 



HOW MEG CHANGED HER MIND. 



I 21 



HOW MEG CHANGED HER MIND. 
By Elizabeth Lawrence. 



LITTLE Meg lay on the sofa in her mother's 
pleasant sitting-room, with a very discontented ex- 
pression on her plump round face. 

Everybody knows that a sprained ankle cannot 
be cured without perfect rest. Meg had not been 
allowed to put her foot to the ground for a week. 
Her father carried her into the sitting-room every 



greeted with a burst of tears and sobs, mingled 
with oft-repeated lamentations of " Oh ! how hor- 
rid everything is ! I want to go to Edith's party ! 
There never was anybody in the world so unfor- 
tunate as I am ! " 

Poor Aunt Mary tried soothing and petting in 
vain, till at last she said, "Meg, dear, I want to 




CHILDREN IN THE LONDON HOSPITAL. 



morning, and Mamma read aloud, and played 
games, and devoted herself to Meg's pleasure ; but 
on this afternoon, Mamma was obliged to go out 
for an hour or two, and it had just occurred to Meg 
that she was very tired of lying still, and, moreover, 
that this was the day her friend, Edith Perkins, was 
having a party ; and she imagined what fun they 
must be enjoying while she was left at home with 
Jane, the maid. She had plenty of books to read, 
and a large family of dolls of all kinds, from wax 
to paper, besides Snow-ball, the fat white kitten, 
who was always ready to play, but she was out 
of humor, and did not wish to amuse herself with 
any of these things; besides, her ankle ached. 

And so it happened that when Aunt Mary ar- 
rived to spend the afternoon with her pet, she was 
Vol. I.- -8. 



tell you about some little sick children I saw in 
London. Wouldn't you like to hear ? I can't be- 
gin till you stop crying." 

One of Aunt Mary's London stories was not to 
be despised, and presently Meg said, in quite an 
altered tone, "Do tell me, Aunty; I won't cry now. " 

" Well, then, in the mighty city of London there 
are many people so dreadfully poor that they suffer 
from hunger and cold and dirt every day ot 
their lives. Now, this is fearful enough for the 
strong ones, but fancy what illness must be in a 
crowded room, on a hard bed, with no clean linen, 
no cooling things to drink, or nice, nourishing food 
to give strength : without any doctor, very likely, 
and, in short, with more misery of every kind than 
you and I could even imagine. 



122 



CHRISTMAS IN SPAIN. 



[January,. 



" Knowing all this, good people have built hos- 
pitals, where these unfortunate ones can have 
everything done for them to soothe their sufferings 
and help them to get well. Some of these are es- 
pecially for children, because it is thought they 
can be better taken care of in an hospital suited 
exactly to their wants than where there are sick 
people of all ages. In one that I went to see there 
were about fifty little patients, divided among four 
large, airy, cheerful rooms, with pictures on the 
walls and flowering plants in the windows. Each 
child had a neat little iron bedstead, with a white 
counterpane, and across each bed a sort of shelf- 
table was fixed on which their play-things were ar- 
ranged. Very queer play-things they were, gene- 
rally old shabby toys that had been discarded by 
more fortunate children ; but although most of the 
dolls were more or less forlorn, and the horses 
didn't look as if they could run very fast, they were 
evidently highly valued by those little people, some 
of whom probably had never had a toy of any kind 
before. In one of the rooms the little patients 
were too ill to play, but as they lay back on their 
pillows they gazed fondly at their small possessions ; 
and the dolls who sat on the little tables, with their 
legs hanging over the edge, vacantly staring at 
their poor little owners, I dare say did them as 
much good as some of the doctors' medicines. 

"In the other rooms the children were able to 
have a good deal of fun, if one could judge from the 
merry laughter one heard at the little jokes that 
went about from one bed to another, and yet, do 
you know, Meg, it often was saddest of all to see 
the children who seemed most comfortable, because 
one knew that while some of the few who were 
violently ill might get quite well again with the 
good care they were having, man)' of these would 
never walk or run, or be rosy, healthy boys and 
girls any more in this world. 

" One little boy named Arthur, I was told, was a 
great favorite with all the rest, and I did not wonder 
at it when I spoke to him, and heard his sweet 
voice and saw the bright smile that lit up his pale 



little face. He told me with delight that his father 
and mother and the baby came to see him every 
Sunday, upon which a little girl in the next bed 
said sadly, ' I've no mother to come and see me, 
for she is dead,' but she added, brightening, 
' Father comes, though, once a month. ' 

" I turned away to hide the tears that would get 
into my eyes. Of course, I knew the kind doctors 
and. nurses at the hospital did all they possibly 
could for the happiness of the poor little things, 
but it seemed to me so very, very hard, that they 
could not have their mothers just when they were 
ill and needed them so much ! 

" One thing that brightened all, was their 
sweet behavior to each other. Not one bit of 
jealousy or selfishness did I see, and there was a 
real courtesy in the way that each one seemed to 
care that the others should be noticed too. I could 
not help contrasting it with the rude self-seeking 
of many children I have known, who ought to 
behave better, not worse, than they. 

"And how shall I tell you how patient they were ! 
There was no crying or complaining, though some 
were suffering dreadful pain ; and the only noise I 
heard was a slight moan wrung from the white 
lips of a little hero, who had been brought in the 
day before, dreadfully injured by a fall. There 
was a kind, strong angel in that hospital, whose 
sweet presence, though unseen, was felt." "Yes," 
whispered Aunt Mary, as she bent to kiss Meg's 
upturned questioning face, " it was the angel of 
patience, darling, and he will always come to any- 
body who longs for him, and tries faithfully to keep 
him when he is here." 

The story was finished and Meg lay quite still 
for some minutes, thinking, with her hand fast 
clasped in Aunt Mary's. Then she said softly, 
" I'm very sorry I was so naughty, I don't really 
think I am more unfortunate than anybody else, 
and I'll never say so again." 

Meg did not forget her promise, and all through 
the remaining weeks of her confinement to the 
sofa, the angel of the hospital staid close by her side. 



CHRISTMAS IN SPAIN. 
By John Hay. 



There is no civilized country on earth in which 
children are not made happy by the promise of the 
coming Christmas. But in every country the festi- 
val is called by a different name, and its presiding 
genius is painted with a different costume and man- 
ner. You know all about our jolly Dutch Santa 



Claus, with his shrewd, twinkling eyes, his frosty 
beard, his ruddy face and the bag of treasures with 
which he comes tumbling down the chimney, while 
his team of reindeer snort and stamp on the icy 
roof. The English Christmas is equally well-known, 
and the wonders of the German miracle-tree, the 



I874-] 



CHRISTMAS IN SPAIN. 



123 



first sight of which no child ever forgets. But you 
are, perhaps, not so familiar with the spirit of the 
blessed season of advent in Southern Europe, and 
so I will tell you some of the pleasures and fancies 
of the Spanish Christmas. 

The good cheer which it brings everywhere is 
especially evident in Spain. They are a frugal 
people; and many a good Spanish family is sup- 
ported by less than the waste of a household on 
Murray Hill. But there is no sparing at Christmas. 
This is a season as fatal to turkeys as Thanksgiving 
in New England. The Castilian farmers drive 
them into Madrid in great droves, which they con- 
duct from door to door, making the dim old streets 
gay with their scarlet wattles, and noisy with ob- 



the men can sing of nothing better than politics. 
But the part which the children take in the festival 
bears a curious resemblance to those time-honored 
ceremonies we all remember. The associations of 
Christmas in Spain are all of the Gospel. There is 
no northern St. Nick there to stuff the stockings of 
good children with rewards of merit. Why, then, 
on Christmas eve do you see the little shoes exposed 
by the windows and doors ? The wise kings of the 
East are supposed to be journeying by night to 
Bethlehem, bearing gifts and homage to the heav- 
enly Child, and out of their abundance, when they 
pass by the houses where good children sleep, they 
will drop into their shoes some of the treasures they 
are bearing to the Baby Prince in Judea. This 




streperous gabbling. But the headquarters of the 
marketing during those days are in the Plaza Mayor, 
where every variety of fruit and provision is sold. 
There is nothing more striking than those vast 
heaps of fresh golden oranges, plucked the day be- 
fore in the groves of Andalusia ; nuts from Granada, 
and dates from Africa ; every flavor and color of 
tropical fruitage ; and in the stalls beneath the 
gloomy arches, the butchers drive their flourishing 
trade. All is gay and joyous — chaffering and jest- 
ing, greeting of friends and filling of baskets. The 
sky is wintry but the ground is ruddy and rich with 
the fruits of summer. 

At night the whole city turns out into the streets. 
The youths and maidens of the poorer class go 
trooping through the town with tamborines, casta- 
nets and guitars, singing and dancing. Everyone 
has a different song to suit his own state of mind. 
The women sing of love and religion, and many of 



thought is never absent from the rejoicings of 
Christmas-tide in Spain. Every hour of the time is 
sacred to Him who came to bring peace and good- 
will to the world. The favorite toy of the season is 
called '• The Nativity." It is sometimes very elabo- 
rate and costly, representing a landscape under a 
starry night ; the shepherds watching their flocks ; 
the magi coming in with wonder and awe, and the 
Child in the stable, shedding upon the darkness 
that living light which was to overspread the world. 
Before the holidays are ended the three kings 
make their appearance again. On the eve of the 
Epiphany, the porters and water-carriers of Madrid, 
wherever they can find one young and simple 
enough to believe it, tell him that those royal and 
sacred personages are coming to the city that night, 
and that they must go to the gates to receive them. 
They make the poor fellow carry a long ladder, 
which, on arriving at each gate, is mounted by one 



124 



ACTING CHARADE.- 



SILENT 



[January. 



of the party, who announces that the visitors are 
not yet in sight. The ladder is then put again upon 
the shoulders of the victim, and the sorry joke is re- 
peated as long as he can endure it. 

Before leaving Spain I will give you a little story 
in rhyme, which came to be written in this way : One 
Christmas time we went to visit a beautiful Moorish 
rain, and one of the party, an American boy, who 
was too lively to be very thoughtful, picked up a 
curiously carved nail, used for studding a door in 
old times, and, I regret to say, put it on his head 
under his hat. He had great trouble in carrying it 
home, and was very much laughed at in conse- 
quence. He wrote these verses as a penance for 
his fault, and I give them to you to see if you can 
iind the moral of them: 

THE CONTRABAND NAIL. 

As I walked in pleasant company, 

From the tables of the Moor. 
I spied a large, seductive nail 

That lay on the marble floor. 
A thievish suggestion came to me, — 

Fiends' whispers are so pat — 
The antiquarian flesh was weak — 

I put the nail in mv hat. 



Through the court I walked with rigid eyes ; 

The breeze was heavy with dread — 
I spoke to the passers like a boor 

With sulky, covered head. 
The host passed by — the friars scowled. 

And fain would have struck me flat ; 
How could I bow when the host passed by? 

I carried a nail in my hat. 

It weighed a ton when, at last, 1 closed 

My purgatorial course ; 
I felt that my head was growing bald 

With friction and remorse. 
1 dropped my nail in the Tagus' stream. 

And tried to atone by that, 
For the crime I had done, and the woe I had known ; 

When I carried a nail in my hat. 

And I could but think as I homeward rode 

Across the moonlit miles. 
How we would stare, could we see the care 

Beneath our neighbors' tiles ; 
The stiffened neck, the devious walk, 

The dodging, and all that 
Grow plain as the sun in a Spanish noon — 

When you've carried a nail in your hat. 



ACTING CHARADE. — "SILENT." 
By Mary L. Ritter. 



[II is cliarade requires nu special costumes, and can be acted well in any drawing-room, without seenery.] 

Dramatis Persona. — Mr. Corwin. Mr. Careless. Margery. 

(Servant to Mr. Corwin.) 

ACT 1.— Sigh. 

SCENE i. — Room in the house of Mr. Corwin. Mr. C. at a table covered with 
books, law-papers, &*c. Valise on the floor. Preparation for a journey. 

Mr. Corwin (heaving a long sigh). 

Well, well, troubles and pains that can't be cured. 

Whether with grace or not must be endured — 

I hate most awfully to go away. 

And yet, how can I reasonably stay ? 

The weather's cold, and travel insecure : 

But, yet, those evils I could well endure. 

Did not these papers so perplex the case. 

( Takes a paper from the table, unfolds, and looks it over with a long sigh.) 
1 found them, too, in such a curious place, — 
Concealed within the book I got to-day 
From Mr. Careless, deftly laid away 
Between the outside cover and the back. 
These papers we have vainly tried to track. 
For want of which a legal war we wage 
To prove our title to the heritage 



i8 7 4.J ACTING CHARADE. "SILENT. 12: 



Of certain lands grown valuable of late, 

For half the town belongs to the estate. 

If Careless should suspect, he wouldn't dare 

To come and ask me for them "on the square. " 

And if I leave them, he will surely plan 

Some tricky way to get them, if he can : 

And if I take them, then farewell to rest. 

Who would believe such things could be a pest? 

They ought to be of most prodigious size, 

They are so precious to my doting eyes. (Sighs. ) 

There's Margery, my good, hard-working maid, 

She's kind and faithful. Still, I am afraid 

Some curious gossip, over toast and tea, 

And under pledge of strictest secrecy 

Might worm the matter from her ; for her tongue, 

To tell the truth, is in the middle hung. 

If I could only tie it I'd be sure; 

But, nothing else would make the thing secure. 

She's good as gold. Gold ! that's the word for me. 

Silence is golden ; it remains to see 

Whether with gold I can so lock her lips 

That not a word from out the portal slips. (Rings the bell. Enter Margery. 

Well, Margery, my girl, before I go 

We'll have a bit of talk. I'm sure you know 

How much I prize your services. You've been 

Steady, industrious, respectful, clean, 

Ready to do even more than I desired. 
Margery. Wal, sir, to tell the truth, when first I hired 

To do your work, I thought I moughtn't stay 

Without no mistress here to pint the way : 

But you've been just that kind, that I could work 

And not feel hurried or a mind to shirk ; 

And while you're gone you needn't have no fear 

But what I'll do the same as when you're here, 

Although I'll make so bold as just to say. 

I wish you hadn't got to go away. 
Mr. Conuin. I thank you, Margery. I'm glad to know 

You like your home. I hope you'll stay. And so 

To prove how much I trust you, and how well, 

I've got a secret for you. 
Margery . L-a ! du tell ! 
Mr. Corwin. Yes ; one of great importance. If you say 

That you will keep it while I am away, 

I'll tell you now. If it should get about — (Sighs.) 
Margery. I moughtn't keep it, then again, I mought. 

I always did tell everything I know'd. 

'Tis like a flower, — the fust you know, it's blowed I 
Ah: Corwin. Yes, so I thought ; let me my plan explain, 

If you don't speak at all, why then 'tis plain 

You can't be made to tell, so you may earn 

Five dollars every day till I return, 

By never speaking to a single soul. 



126 ACTING CHARADE. -"SILENT. [January, 



Margery. '(In great surprise.) Five dollars every day? 
Mr. Corwin. Yes; to control 

That wagging member that I can't quite trust. 
Margery. Sir, 'tis a bargain. If I must, I must. 

Five dollars and my wages is a heap, 

And I won't talk unless it's in my sleep. 

'Twill be hard work ; but I don't care a straw, 

I'll put a sticking-plaster on my jaw. 
Mr. Corwin. That's right, my girl ! you never will regret it, 

And for my bargain, I will not forget it. 

Now for my wondrous secret : Hid away 

In the big book I borrowed yesterday 

From Mr. Careless, I, by fate directed, 

Found in a place that no one had suspected 

Some papers of great value in the case 

That Careless has against me. Should he trace 

The deeds to me, he'll come here to find out, 

And then, I reckon, he'll find you about. 

Here are the papers ; keep them safely hid, 

They're worth their weight in gold. Do as I bid — 

No matter what they say or what they do, 

Don't let them get a syllable from you. (Exit Mr. Cotwin.) 
Margery. So that old sarpent, Careless, is the man, 

I hate him so I'll plague him all I can. 

But, law ! here I am gabbling away 

As if I wasn't paid so much a day. 

If Careless comes, won't he be in a tease? (Trying to sneeze.) 

I wonder if it's talking when you sneeze ? 

(Claps her hands over her month in horror, ami runs off the stage.) 

ACT. II.— Lent. 

Scene i. — Office of Mr. Core/ess. Mr. C. with a box before him containing 
old books and papers. Boohs piled on the floor. Papers thrown about. 
Mr. C, wearing green spectacles, seated, examining papers. 

Mr. Careless. Here, let me see now; here, now, let me see, 
I know just where those papers ought to be ; 
But if I've bought this trash of neighbor Jones, — 
Just dead, poor fellow, Heaven rest his bones, — 
And after all my trouble find too late 
No trace of any deeds of the estate 
I think I shall go mad. Why was I late ? 
He strove so vainly to articulate 
Just at the last ; but I could not make out, 

Although 1 tried, what it was all about. (Enter servant with letter.) 
Servant. A letter, sir. 

Mr. Careless. A letter? Let me see. (Opens, and looks at signature.) 
From Mrs. Jones; what can she want with me? 
(Reads). "Dear Sir: — You were so kind in my distress, 
Buying my husband's books, I can't do less 
Than tell you that you 've been so fortunate 
As now to hold the deeds to that estate." 
(Zounds ! here is luck ! I hope she isn't mad— 



i8 7 4-] ACTING CHARADE. "SILENT." 1 27 

Or parted with the little sense she had.) 
(Reads.) "My husband hid them, thinking that some day 
Old Mr. Corwin or yourself would pay 
To get them back ; but when our funds were low, 
And I entreated him to let you know, 
And give me half the money for a shawl, 
He said he'd found they were no good at all, 
Only as curious things that people buy 
When their great hobby is antiquity ; 
That he should tell you of it the next day, 
When, lo ! paralysis took him away, 
And I am left my mourning to begin, 
Without a yard of crape to do it in." 
Mr. Careless. Well, this is good, when here she gives away 
Enough to make her rich for many a day. 
But let us see where I shall find the goods ; 
Don't crow too loud, till you get through the woods. 
(Reads.) " The volume where the papers lie concealed 
Is Locke, and with the key I give 'twill yield 
The treasure, which, although now valueless, 
I think you will be happy to possess, 
And, thanking you for various friendly loans, 
Gratefully yours, Matilda Mary Jones." 
Locke ! gracious powers ! that was the one I lent 
To Corwin, of all men ! and he has spent 
At least one night with it, and has no doubt, 
Scrutinized, probed, and found the whole thing out ! 
Lent ! I shall burst with rage. Lent ! lost and gone ! 
And no one here to vent my rage upon. 
Corwin, they say, is off on some goose chase, 
And no one knows when I shall see his face. 
And Margery is dumb ; at least I've heard 
That for some reason she won't say a word. 
I'll go there, anyway, on some pretence, 
And end as best I can this great suspense. (Exit.) 



ACT III.— Silent. 

Scene I. — Mr. Corwin 's house. Margery dusting and arranging the room. 
Enter Mr. Careless in out-door dress, with an umbrella. 

Mr. Careless. Well, Margery, my girl, how do you -do? 

(Margery looks at him, and gives her duster a great shake.) 
Mr. Careless. Why, what the mischief 's entered into you ? 

A devil, mayhap, such as used to be 

About the shores of the Galilean Sea. 

I'd cast him out by means of a stout stick, 

Were I in Corwin's place. Where is he? Sick? (M. shakes her head. ) 

Then gone ? ( She nods. ) 

Why, zounds, you jade ! Stop nodding so, 

Or I shall shake your head, myself ! But, no ! 

I'm wrong. I ask your pardon. I am quick, 

And apt to be a little choleric. 



128 A NEW REGULATION. 



[Janlarv. 



You say that Mr. Corwin is away? (She nods.) 
And do you know how long he's going to stay? 

(Margery takes an empty purse from her pocket, and looks at it.) 
Ah, ho! I see! 'Tis bad about your cold. (Takes out his purse.) 
1 wish you'd please accept this piece of gold, 
And get some honey-dew, or coal-tar gum. 
It's very nice to take. Now, Margery, come ! 
Did Corwin speak of papers, deeds, or such ? (She nods. ) 
Ah, yes ; he did ! All right, I thought as much. 
Perhaps he left them. Just step in and see. 

(Margery again takes out her purse, and the key of the next room.) 
Yes, yes; I understand, and I agree 
To pay you well. And while you're there, just look. 
And bring me out my Locke. (Aside) I'll take the book; 
Perhaps it's still within it, and this fool 
Will be for once a most convenient tool. 

(Margery puts the key in the door, and looks wistfully at Mr. I "s money. ) 
Well, I will trust you. Take it now, and go. 

(She goes out and returns with a bundle of brown paper and an old 
door-lock. ) 
Mr. Careless. You wretch! you thief! you cheat! Oh, heavens ! Oh! 
Give me my money, or I'll break your skull. 

' He threatens her with the umbrella. She snatches it away and beats 
him with it. ) 
Oh, what a goose I've been ! oh, what a gull ! 
This is the worst drop in my cup of gall, 
I'll hide myself lest it should not be all : 
But I would gladly suffer other ways, 
If this wretch could be silent all her days. 

(Margery drives him out at the point of the umbrella and dances •wildly 
about the stage. 



A NEW REGULATION. 

If the police were elephants, 
Perhaps we'd have less noise ; 

'Twould be so easy for them then 
To ''take up" little boys. 

The little truants all about 

Would quickly know their rule ; 

They'd pack each fellow in their trunks. 
And take him back to school. 




■874-1 



A GARRET A D V E X T U R E . 



I29 



A GARRET ADVENTURE. 

By M. M. D. 



"Snow! snow! snow!" 

So it did. But Ned Brant need not have been 
io cross about it. He seemed to think, as he said 
.he words, that of all unfortunate, ill-used fellows 
le was the most to be pitied ; and of all hateful, 
nalignant things, those soft, white, downy specks, 
htting past the window, were hatefulest and most 
nalignant. 

•' Christmas week, too!" said Ned, bitterly. 

So it was ; and perhaps it ought to have been 
ishamed of itself; but it didn't seem to be. 

At this moment a great clattering was heard at 
he back door. 

"They've come! after all," cried Ned, rushing 
>ut of the room and down the stair, all his wretch- 
edness gone in an instant. 

His two sisters were at the door before him, and 
he three opened it together. 

" O, O, howdy-do? we were afraid you wouldn't 
:ome!" said some voices, and "Hello! where's 



our scraper 1 



'Pooh! we weren't going to mind 



uch a little snow as this," cried others, all in a 
horus. 

Six visitors ! Think of that. Two lived next 
loor on one side, two lived next door on the other 
Sde, and two lived across the way. The first pair 
/ere named Wilbur and Rob ; the second pair 
,'ere Herbert and Dickie ; the third pair were Jamie 
nd Tommy. Wilbur had on an overcoat and a 
nuffier, for he had a weak chest. Rob had a tippet 
ied over his cap, for he was subject to ear-ache, 
ferbert had a cap and a grey overcoat ; Dickie had 
cap and no overcoat ; Jamie wore a Scotch suit ; and 
"ommy wore a short bob-jacket and long trowsers. 
tell you this so that you may know how they ap- 
«ared. As for their faces, they were so rosy and 
-right that they all looked alike when the door 
pened. All the visitors were boys, as any one 
.'ould have known who heard the tramping as the 
iarty went up-stairs. 

Yes, up stairs they went, nine of them, talking 
very step of the way. The home children, Ned, 
Luth, and Dot, almost always took any visitor that 
am'e, right to their mother's room to introduce 
hem, out of respect to her, or at any rate, to give 
hem the benefit of her hearty " How do you do, 
ty dears ?" But this time they went straight past 
er door, up, up, to the very garret. 

" Ned," his mother had said in the morning, " if 
ae children come this afternoon to help you keep 
ie holidays, either play in the yard or up in the 



garret, for I shall be quite busy. Have all the 
fun you can, but be sure not to break anything and 
not to take cold." 

You may wonder why Mrs. Brant did not say ; 
"Be sure not to be naughty." But she would 
almost as soon have said : " Be sure not to cut off 
your heads," as to have said that. She knew her 
children too well to think they did not wish to be 
good. As for telling them "not to take cold," that 
only meant they must be sure to dress warmly if 
they played out of doors. The garret was never 
very chilly, because the heat from the furnace always 
crept up there whenever it had a chance. 

It was a lovely old garret, light, yet mysterious, 
with plenty of stored-away things in it to make it 
interesting, and a great cleared space to play in. 
Just now it was even more delightful than usual, 
for in one corner of it was a very big heap of " pot- 
ter-baker's " clay. 

" O, what's that?" cried the visitors, the moment 
they reached the garret door. 

"That's potter-baker's clay," said Ruth. " It's 
splendid for lots of things. Father's going to make 
some kind of what-you-call-'ems out of it." 

Thereupon the six visitors all stood in a row and 
gazed at the heap. It was grey, dusty and lumpy, 
and looked something like faded-out garden soil. 

" W'hafs he going to make ?" said Tommy. 

"I don't know, exactly," said Ruth, "it only 
came yesterday." 

"Was it a Christmas present to your papa?" 
asked little Dickie, innocently. 

"I bet it wasn't," replied Ned, with lofty scorn. 
"He had slippers. What'd your father get?" 

" Slippers, too," said Dickie. 

"So did my papa," laughed Wilbur. 

■•I guess all gentlemens gets 'em," said Dickie, 
thoughtfully, "but I'd rather have 'most anything 
'sides them." 

Still the children stood staring at the heap of clay. 

"Let's sit on it," said Jamie, with great daring. 
" I guess it '11 dust off." 

A hint was enough. The heap was soon covered 
with children, and when they jumped up they found 
that Jamie was right. It "dusted off" admirably. 

" Let's make a road," cried one of the others. 

" All right !" said Ned, in great glee ; but he 
looked at Ruth, and she answered his look with 
"yes; we'd best ask Mamma." 

Ned was down-stairs in a twinkling. Mrs. Brant 
was very busily fitting a dress on her mother. 



J3Q 



A GARRET ADVENTURE. 



fjANUA 



"Don't come in, Ned!" she called, as Ned 
opened the door. " I'm busy with Grandma; what 
do you want ?" 

" Can we play with the clay, mother?" 

" O, yes, I suppose so," said the mother, pinning 
a plait on Grandma's shoulder ; " do what you please 
with it, only don't throw it about and get it into each 
■ other's eyes." 

"O no, ma'am," answered Ned, as he rushed 
toward the garret stairs again, quite delighted. 

But when he reached the top, he found all the 
children with tears in their eyes. 

They had already forgotten the clay ; for Ruth 
had taken a big onion from a bunch that hung on 
•one of the rafters. Wilbur had cut it in slices, and 
now every one was holding a piece to see " which 
could smell the onion longest without crying." 

"What a pack of ninnies ! " cried Ned, laughing, 
and all the ninnies laughed with him, except little 
Dot, who whined a little and wished she hadn't 
tried it. 

" Have you given up the road ? " ask Ned, but 
nobody answered him, for that old garret had so 
much in it to look at, so many odd nooks and 
corners, that before the eight pairs of eyes were dry 
their owners were all scudding and burrowing 
about like so many rabbits. What a delightful 
time they had ! I cannot begin to tell you all the 
games they played, and the comical talks they had, 
nor how they "dressed up" in the old hats and 
garments they found hanging on the nails, nor how 
the boys made the girls scream by crying " Here's 
a rat, kill him ! kill him ! " and then flinging their 
victim across the floor in the shape of an old boot 
or a bit of torn fur. At last Tommy looked out of 
one of the little square windows, which was half 
covered with cobwebs. " I say, its snowing harder 
than ever — there'd have been good skating by to- 
morrow if it hadn't snowed !" 

This seemed to make all the party serious for a 
moment. 

"It isn't so very bad," said Ruth, who always 
looked on the bright side of things. " There'll be 
splendid snow-balling." 

"Who cares for snow-balling!" cried little 
Dickie, " skatin's the best." 

Everybody laughed at this, for Dickie was only 
six years old, and couldn't skate a stroke, not even 
on roller skates. 

Suddenly, Wilbur cried "Oh!" and stood 
motionless, looking steadily at the floor. Rob flew 
to him like a good brother, as he was, and gave him 
a poke. 

"What on earth's the matter, Wilbur?" 

" Nothing. Only I bet we could ! Sure as I live 
we could ! " 

" Could wkdtf" cried Tommy. 



"Why, make a skating pond here, right here, 
this very garret ! " 

" Yes, you could," sneered Tommy, who, by t 
way, was the only fellow who had taken off his hn 
Ruth had excused them because the garret w 
not very warm. 

" I tell you, I could, man. I say Ned, let's i 
it ! We can have a pond here before night. Yo 
bath-room is right on the next floor, isn't i 
Here are pots and pans enough for all of us." 

All the eight stared at Wilbur, as if they thoug 
his wits were leaving him, but he added eagerly, 

" I tell you, it will be grand. We'll have as b 
a circle as we can get here in the middle of tl 
garret, and make a bank out of that clay — cl; 
holds water perfectly. Then we'll fill up t 
circle with water. " 

Their eyes danced at this, but Tommy chilli 
their ardor with a sarcastic 

" Ho ! skate on water ! ho ! " 

"We'll open the scuttle and the windows, and 1 
the pond freeze over- night," said Wilbur. 

" Jiminy ! " screamed Ned ; " so we can ! Con 
on here; we'll have the bank in a jiffy ! " 

" Hurrah ! " cried the rest. 

In an instant all hands were at work — all b 
Ruth, who looked troubled, and begged Dot i 
" go down and ask Mamma." She should ha\ 
gone herself, for Dot was only six years old, and 
very uncertain young woman at carrying message 

Soon Dot, clambering down two sets of stain 
rushed into her mother's room with — " Mamm. 
Ruth wants to know if we can do it ? " 

' ' Do what, Dot ? (Mother, do look at that child 
cheeks — they're just like roses.) Do what, m 
pet ? " 

" Why, play bank with the clay," panted Dot 

" O, I suppose I must," laughed the mothei 
" Tell her yes, Dot." As the little girl ran out c 
the room and up the stairs, screaming, " Yes, ye: 
Mamma says you can do it," Mrs. Brant said t 
Grandma, "I ought to go up, I suppose. But the 
can't do more than make a muss with it, and the 
can clear it all up to-morrow. " 

"You're too easy with those children, Eliza,' 
said Grandma, quietly, adding, as Mrs. Brant hur 
riedly took up her sewing again, "but they'n 
such dear little things, I don't wonder you like t< 
make 'em happy. " 

" Good ! " cried Ned when Dot's happy messagi 
was delivered. " Mother's splendid. I say, wi 
must fill up all these cracks with the clay, boys." 

" You're sure Mother said we could, Dot? " 

" Course she did," said Dot, decidedly. " Sh( 
laughed, too." 

Poor little Dot had no idea that she had told hei 
mother only half of their plan. Her own head was 



3874: 



A GARRET ADVENTURE. 



so full of it that she thought everyone else must 
know all about it, too. As for Ruth, she being 
three years older, couldn't help being surprised at 
their mother's consent to such wild fun, but she 
never dreamed but that her mother had consented. 
It was a time of deep delight to her, for she could 
work as hard as any of the boys. 

In a little while the bank was made. " Many 
hands make light work." It was a fine affair, well 
packed and quite regular in shape, for Wilbur 
had chalked a circle on the floor for them "to 
work by." 

So Ned and Tommy took two pails that were 
in a corner of the garret, and ran to the bath- 



breaks, and beat it solid with the back of the 
spade. 

" Keep on ! keep on!" shouted Ned, still lead- 
ing the way, while the rest followed. " We'll have 
her full in less than no time." 

***** 

" Eliza ! " said Grandma, " do hear the trampin'. 
What on earth can those children be doing ? " 

" O," laughed Mrs. Brant, " they're playing 
some game or other. Betsey'U look after them. 
She's busy up-stairs, for I hear the water running." 
* * * * * 

" It's mighty queer," said Ned, dashing in a 
pailful, as Ruth emptied her crock for the twentieth 




room for water. Ruth gave a pitcher to Jamie, 
a basin to Herbert, a tub to Wilbur, and, seizing 
a big earthen jar for herself, gave the word for all to 
follow. 

It was hard work, but it passed for play, and 
they all played with a will. They let the water 
run from both of the faucets into the bath tub, so 
that after a while some could fill at the faucets, and 
some could dip out of the tub. 

Up and down, down and up, the laughing 
children went, panting and puffing, filling and 
pouring, bucketful, pailful, pitcherful, basinful, 
crockful, over and over again, till at last the pond 
began to show in earnest. Wilbur seized an old 
spade out of a broken cradle, and had as much as 
he could do to watch the clay bank, and mend 



time — " mighty queer how long it takes the thing 
to fill — but keep on, fellows. Don't stop." 

In a few moments the street door opened, and up 
went Mr. Brant to the sewing-room. 

" How dy'e do, how dy'e do?" said he, kissing 
Mrs. Brant and his mother. "Well, this is A busy 
party — put up your work, my dear, and come up 
to the library — I've something to tell you and 
Mother. Ho ! ho ! here's baby awake. Well, we 
must take him up, too." 

Baby shouted with delight to find himself in 
Papa's arms. Mrs. Brant put down her work, 
Grandma took her crochet-basket in her hand, 
and they all went up to Papa's light, pleasant lib- 
rary on the floor above. 

"Well, my dear, what is it ? Some good news, 



A GARRET ADVENTURE. 



[January. 



I'm sure," said Mrs. Brant, as Grandma nestled in 
her easy chair, and Papa putting baby on the floor 
with a kiss, proceeded to place a chair for himself 
between his wife and mother. 

•'Yes it is good news, dear, I'm happy to say," 
he answered, with a bright smile. " I don't know 

when I've had anything so pleasant to Holloa. 

what the mischiefs the matter ?" 

They started up. Surely enough, something was 
the matter. It was raining ! A shower was coming 
down on their heads, the ceiling was cracking, the 
baby screaming. Patter, patter came the water, 



Betsy ! we must empty this as quickly as pos- 
sible." 

He was at the little window by this time empty- 
ing the pail. The children took the hint and 
opening the other window, went to work as hard as 
they could, and with beating hearts emptied the 
pond in a quarter of the time it had taken to fill it. 
Mrs. Brant, Grandma, and Betsy came up, too, 
and did wonders with towels, sheets and every- 
thing they could lay their hands on. In her ex- 
citement Mrs. Brant came near wiping the floor 
with the baby. 




faster and faster. What could it be ? Perhaps 
the house was on fire and the firemen were up-stairs 
already with their hose ! The thought made 
Grandmother scream as she rushed to the baby's 
rescue. Mr. Brant dashed up the stairs, almost 
knocking down Dot and Rob on the way. 

"What's going on up here? Quick! where 
does the water come from ?" 

No need of asking the question. There were 
the pond, the startled faces of the children, the 
pitchers, basins, and pails. 

" What in the world !" cried the father, seizing 
a pail and scooping up as much as he could from 
the pond. " Here, lend a hand all of you ! Call 



The worst was soon over, but it seemed the 
library ceiling couldn't get over it in a hurry. It 
dripped, and dripped, and broke out in great damp 
blotches and cracked and whimpered as if it were 
alive. Fortunately, the book-cases escaped wetting, 
and the carpet didn't " run," as Grandma said; so 
it might have been worse. 

But those six visitors — who shall describe their 
emotions ! As one of them afterwards said, they 
were frightened to death and bursting with laugh- 
ter. They all tried to hide behind each other when 
Mr. Brant, half angry, half amused, asked them 
what they would like to do next. 

'• Go home, sir, I guess," said Tommy. 



T874-1 



IS THE WORLD ROUND 



J>J 



IS THE WORLD ROUND 3 
By John W. Preston. 



"Mamma," said Johnny, one day, as he stood 
by the sea-side with his mother, and was looking 
over the broad surface of the ocean, " mamma, do 
you see that place, away over yonder, where the 
ocean stops and the sky begins?" 

" Yes," replied his mother; "that is called the 
horizon." 

" Well, mamma, why don't the water all run off. 
in that place, I don't see any land to stop it ?" 

"Why, Johnny, there is no place there for it to 
run off. If you were there you would find it quite 
as flat and level as it is here, and the horizon just 
as far away as it seems to be now." 

" I don't see how that can be, mamma, isn't there 
any place where the world comes to an end, and 
everything stops ?" 

" Take this orange, my son, and tell me where 

it comes to an end, as you say," said Mrs. Watson, 

taking a fine specimen of that fruit from her pocket. 

Johnny took the orange in his hand, looked it 

carefully all over, casting his eyes, every now and 

then, out upon the ocean, and along the horizon, 

J as if in deep thought, which was, indeed, pretty 

j deep thought for a little boy seven years old, and 

at length, said : 

" I remember, mamma, the geography says that 
the earth is round ; but I did not know for certain 
that the earth means just the land and water that 
we live on. But is it round like this orange ?" 

"Yes, my little boy; all this land and water is 

:he earth, and it is round like that orange ; and if 

rou were to get into a ship and sail right straight 

)ut there, to the east, — about where the sun comes 

tp in the morning, — you would have to go three or 

our thousand miles on the ocean, just as a fly would 

:ra\v] on that orange, before you came to land again. 

Ul that water would be the Atlantic Ocean, and 

he land you would come to would be the continent 

f Europe. And then, if you kept on going directly 

ast, — traveling over Europe and the continent next 

3 it, Asia, — several thousand miles, you would 

ome to another ocean, much larger than the Atlan- 

c, called the Pacific Ocean. After crossing the 

'acific, you would come to the western side of the 

American continent, where Oregon and California 

re, you know, — where Uncle John went last year; 

nd if you continued on traveling east, you would 

Dme, at last, to this very same spot, where we are 

ow standing, only you would come up behind us ; 

nd if I were standing here alone, looking for you, 

should have my face turned away towards the 



woods ; for you would have gone all around the 
earth, just as the fly would have walked all around 
the orange, and come back to the place he started 
from. Do you understand that ?" 

"Oh, yes, mamma, I understand that; but when 
I got on the other side, I should fill off, I know 1 
should." 

"Fall off from what?" 

"Why, from the earth, mamma," said Johnny. 

" You forget that I told you that if you were 
to go out to the place where the ocean and sky seem 
to meet, it would seem all level and flat, just as it 
does here, — the earth under your feet and the sky 
overhead, and so it would be wherever you went ; 
if you fell off, you would have to fall up into the 
sky, and that, you know, is impossible." 

"Well, but mamma, when I got just half around 
the earth, wouldn't I be walking with my head 
down and my feet up, and what could - keep me 
from falling off? I couldn't stick on with my feet, 
could I ?" 

"Which way is up, Johnny?" 

" Whv, up is right up here, overhead, up in the 
sky !" 

" Well, which way is down f" 

" Down is right here, under my feet." 

" Towards the earth, is it not?" 

" Yes, mamma." 

"Well, now, suppose you are going around the 
earth, wherever you go and wherever you are, up 
is overhead, or towards the sky; and down is 
always under foot, or towards the earth ; is not that 
so?" 

" Yes, mamma." 

"Now, suppose again, you had got half around 
the earth, and were in China, and I was standing 
right here, your feet and my feet would be pointing 
towards each other, and our heads away from each 
other. Both of our heads would be pointing to- 
wards the sky. If you fell, you would fall towards 
the ground ; and if I fell, I should fall towards the 
ground ; so that we neither of us should fall off, as 
you fear. Now, do you understand it ?" 

Johnny hesitated a little, and then said, very 
slowly : " I think it must be just as you say, mam- 
ma; I understand it a little. I shall understand it 
better when I get older, I guess." 

The truth is, that the little boy was puzzled, as 
most little boys and girls are on this very subject. 
He saw that his mother's reasoning was correct, 
and felt the justness of the conclusion; but could 



134 



IS THE WORLD ROUND 



[January, 1 




not at once free his mind from old ideas about up 
and down. 

" But, mamma," said Johnny, with renewed ani- 



mation, and with an air of triumph, 
"you said the earth was round, just 
like this orange : now, that can't beJ 
because, look at those high hills overi 
there, and then there are great big 1 
mountains on the earth, and how canl 
it be round, then ?" 

' ' Well, and why can it not be 
round, even if there are hills and 
mountains on it ?" 

"Why, look here, mamma; this 
orange is round and smooth, and 
even." 

" Is it really quite smooth, Johnny ? ' 

" All but these little bits of bump: 
and pimples on its skin," said John 
ny, turning the orange over in hi 
hand. 

" Oh, ho ! little bits of bumps anc 
pimples, are they, Master Johnny 1 
what should you think, if I were tc 1 
tell you that those little elevation: 
were really very large and lofty mount 
ains on the surface of the orange ? " 

" Oh ! but mamma, you are fun 
ning now," said Johnny, with a littli 
bit of a sneer. 

"What mountain do you remem 
ber to have seen, my little man ?' 
said his mother. 

"Why, didn't we go up Mt. Hoi 
yoke, last summer, with papa anc 
Aunt Jane ! That is a pretty high 
mountain, I guess, mamma." 

"It seemed so to you, my son 
have no doubt; but compared witl 
other mountains in our own country 
it is a very small affair, — quite i 
baby mountain, though a very beau 
tiful one." 

" Oh, yes, mamma, my geography 
lesson said that the highest mount 
ains are in Asia, and that they arc; 
five miles high." 

"Yes; nearer five and a-half mile: 

than five miles," said his mother 

" The highest peak of the Himalaya 

Mountains, in the central part of 

Asia, is more than 29,000 feet high 

while little Holyoke is only 1,000 fee 

high ; so that the great Asiatic mount 

ain would be higher than twenty-nim 

Mount Holyokes piled on the top oi 

each other." 

" Whew !" said Johnny. " Well, then, mamma 

of course the earth can't be round like this orange 

if it has such great big mountains on it ?" 



IS THE WORLD ROUND? 



135 



'You remind me, Johnny, of a little Swiss boy, 
3 lived in the valley among the lofty mountains 
.ed the Alps, the highest in Europe. He was 
zled, just as you are. He had never seen any- 
ig beyond his little valley between the high 
j;es of the mountain ranges, and he could not 
reive how the earth could be round like a ball, 
link there was some excuse for a little boy in his 
lation, much more than if he had traveled many 
ldred miles over hills and plains, and had seen 
broad ocean's expanse ; don't you think so, 
inny?" 

'I suppose so, mamma," said he, hanging his 
:d, as though he felt that he was the little boy 
3 had traveled and ought to know better. " But 
ity the little mountain boy, who never saw the 
an," he added. 

ohnny's eyes were fixed upon the distant hori- 
, where the dark clouds were already gathering 
1 seeming to shut down upon the rolling sea. 
rould not be wonderful if the little boy were 
king a tour around the world in his imagination. 
' And now," said his mother, "let us see what a 
e sober arithmetic can do for us. Let us see 
J the earth can be round as an orange, and yet 
e the great big mountains that you speak of 
n it. Do you know how long an inch is ? " 
Twelve inches make one foot," replied Johnny, 
Iptly. 

iYes, but how long is an inch ? " 
I did not exactly know, but thought they could 
>s pretty near it. 

.Well, we'll try," said his mother, "it is about 
nch from the end of my thumb nail to the 
est joint of my thumb, where it bends, — that 
:ar enough for our present purpose. Now let 
;e how many inches this orange is through, 
:e widest part. I should say it was about three 
2s in diameter, what should you say ? " 
[ guess that is pretty near it. " 
That is not guessing, Johnny, that is calculat- 
or reckoning. We will call it three inches, 
Now let us fix our eyes on one of those little 
'as or pimples on the orange, and .nake. an 
iate of its height. How high should you think 
3?" 

iVhy, mamma, how can I tell that ? I should 
. it would take a hundred of them, piled on 
f each other, to make an inch high." 
Veil, my little boy, I think you have made a 
good guess this time ; for I am quite sure 



you would find, if you tried rt, that the height of 
one of those little pimples would not vary much 
from a hundredth part of an inch above the level of 
the orange. Now, suppose, as we have said, that 
the diameter of the orange is three inches, and the 
height of the little bump is one hundredth of an 
inch, then the diameter of the orange is three 
hundred times the height of the pimple. Is not 
that so ? " 

" Of course, mamma, if it takes one hundred of 
those little bumps to make a bump one inch high, 
it will take three hundred of them to go through 
the orange." 

" That is exactly the idea, Johnny, though I do 
not think you use the most accurate language in 
expressing it. And now let us take the case of the 
mountain and the earth. We will say that the 
earth is pretty nearly 8,000 miles in diameter, that 
is, through it, and that the mountain in Asia, that 
we spoke of, is five and a-half miles high. Now, 
how many times greater is the earth's diameter 
than the mountain's height? " 

" How many, mamma? " 

" Well, not to be exact, Johnny, it is more than 
1.400 times as large." 

"Why, mamma! — would it take more than 
1,400 of these big mountains to reach through the 
earth ? " 

" It would take the height of more than 1,400 
such mountains, all added together, to equal the 
diameter of the earth." 

" And it took only 300 of the little bumps on the 
orange skin to make the diameter of the orange," 
said Johnny, after a moment's pause. 

' ' You are correct, my son ; and now which is the 
higher in proportion, the pimple on the orange or 
the mountain on the earth ? " 

" Why, the pimple on the orange." 

" Yes, almost five times as high ; so that if this 
orange should suddenly become as large as the 
earth, those little bumps would be as high as five 
of these Himalaya mountains piled on the top of 
each other. What a prodigiously high mountain 
must that little bump be to some speck of a being 
that may be looking up at its dim and distant sum- 
mit from the valley at its foot. And now do you. 
see how the earth may be round, like the orange, 
even if it has high mountains on it? " 

"Oh! yes, mamma, I can understand that," 
he replied, with a sigh .of relief, "and now can't 
we eat the orange ?" 



ustration to this article is taken from Guyot's admirable '' Intermediate Geography," published by Scribner, Armstrongs Co., N. Y." 



136 



THE STORY OF THE JOLLY HARPER MAN. 



[JANUA, 



THE HIDDEN RILL. 

{Translated /ro/>t the Spanish.) 

By William Cullen Bryant. 

ACROSS a pleasant field, a rill unseen 

Steals from a fountain, nor does aught betray 
Its presence, save a tint of livelier green, 

And flowers that scent the air along its way. 
Thus secretly should charity attend 

Those who in want's dim chambers pine and grieve; 
And nought should e'er reveal the aid we lend, 

Save the glad looks our kindly visits leave. 



THE STORY OF THE JOLLY HARPER 
HIS GOOD FORTUNE. 



MAN AND 



By H. Buttkrworth. 



MANY, many years ago — as long ago as the days 
of Fair Rosamond — when Henry Plantagenet and 
his unruly family governed England, there lived in 
Scotland, a jolly harper man, who was accounted 




There was a jolly harper man, 
That harpit aye frae toun tae toun." 

— Old Ballad. 

the most charming player in all the world, 
children followed him in crowds through the stre 
nor could they be stopped while he continued p 
ing ; even the animals in the woods stood on t 
haunches to listen, when he wandered harp 
through the country; and the fair daughters of 
nobles immediately fell in love as often as he 
proached their castles. 

All the players and singers in the known w 
never accomplished anything equal to the musi 
the jolly harper man. 

King Henry had a wonderful horse — a very v 
derful horse — named Brownie. He did not q 
equal in dexterity and intelligence the high-fl; 
animal of whom you have read in the " Aral 
Night's," but he knew a great deal, and was a 
of philosopher among horses — just as Newton 
a philosopher among men. King Henry said 
would not part with him for a province, — he w 
rather lose his crown. In this he was wise, fi 
new crown could have been as easily made as a s 
pan ; but all the world could not produce 
another intelligent horse. 

King Henry had fine stables built for the ani 
— a sort of horse palace. They were very stn 
and were fastened by locks, and bars and bolts, 



874-] 



THE TOLLY HARPER MAN. 



l 37 



vere kept by gay grooms, and guarded day and 
light by soldiers, who never had been known to fal- 
er in their devotion to the interests of the king. 

So strongly was the animal guarded, that it came 
o be a proverb among the English yeomanry, that 
i person could no more do this or that hard thing, 
han "they could steal Brownie from the stables of 
he king." 

The king liked the proverb ; it was a compliment 
o his wisdom and sagacity. It made him feel good, 
-so good, in fact, -that it led him one day to quite 
ivershoot the mark in an effort that he made to in- 
rease the people's high opinion. 

" If any one," said he, after a good dinner, — "if 
ny one were smart enough to get Brownie out of 
lis stables without my knowledge, I would, for his 
leverness, forgive him, and give him an estate to 
eturn the animal." Then he looked very wise, 
nd felt very comfortable and very secure. ".But," 
le added, " evil overtake the man who gets caught 
a an attempt to steal my horse. Lucky will it be 
jt him if his eyes ever see the light of the English 
un again." 

Then the report went abroad that the man who 
rould be so shrewd as to get possession of the king's 
lorse, should have an estate, but that he who failed 
i the attempt should lose his head. 

The English court, at this time, was at Carlisle, 
ear the Scottish border. The jolly harper man 
ved in the old town of Striveling, since called Stir- 
mg, at some distance from the border. 

The jolly harper man, like most people of genius, 
'as very poor. He often played in the castles of 








THE PROPHECY TO SIR ROGER AND SIR CHARLES. 



"SO THE OLD HERMIT CAME DOWN THE HILL. 

the nobles, especially on festive occasions ; and as 
he contrasted the luxurious living of these fat lords 
with his own poverty, he became suddenly seized 
with a desire for wealth, and he remembered the 
proverb, which was old, even then, that "Where 
there is a will there is a way." 

One autumn day, as he was traveling along the 
borders of Loch Lomond, a famous lake in the 
middle of Scotland, he remembered that there was 
a cave overlooking the lake from a thickly wooded 
hill, in which dwelt a hermit, who often was con- 
sulted by people in perplexity, and who bore the 
name of the Man of Wisdom. 

He was not a wicked magician, nor did he pre- 
tend to have any dealings with the dead. He was 
gifted only with what was called clearness of vision ; 
he could see into the secret of things, just as Zerah 
Colburn could see into difficult problems of mathe- 
matics, without study. Things that were darkness 
to others were as clear as sunlight to him. He- 
lived on roots and herbs, and flourished so wonder- 
fully on the diet, that what he didn't know was 
considered not worth knowing. 

It was near nightfall when the jolly harper man 
came to the famous hill. The sun was going down 
in splendor, and the moon was coming up. faint and 
shadowy, and turning into gold as the shadows 
deepened. Showers of silver began to fall on Loch 
Lomond, and to quiver over the valleys. It was 
an hour to fill a minstrel's heart with romantic 
feeling, and it lent its witchery to the heart of the 
jolly harper man. 

He wandered up the hill, overlooking the lake, 



Vol. i. — 9. 



138 



THE JOLLY HARPER MAN. 



[January u 



where dwelt the Man of Wisdom, to whose mind 
all things were clear. He sat down near the mouth 
of the cave, partook of his evening meal, then, 
seizing his harp, began to play. 

He played a tune of wonderful sweetness and 
sadness, so soft and airy that the notes seemed to 
glide down the moonbeams, like the tinkling of 
fairy bells in the air. The wicked owl pricked up . 
his ears to listen, and was so overcome that he 
wished he was a more respectable bird. The little 
animals came out of the bushes, and formed a cir- 
cle around the jolly harper man, as though en- 
chanted. 

The old hermit heard the strain, and came out 
to listen, and, because he had clearness of vision, 
he knew that music of such wonderful tenderness 
could be produced only by one who had great gifts 
of nature, and who also had some secret longing 
in his heart. 

So he came down the hill to the jolly harper man, 
walking with his cane, his gray beard falling over 
his bosom, and his long white hair silvered in the 
moonlight. 

The jolly harper man secretly expected him, or 
at least he hoped that he would come out. Like the 
Queen of Sheba, he wished to test the wisdom of 
this new Solomon, and to enquire of him if there 
were no way of turning his wonderful musical genius 
into bags of gold. 




THE JOLLY HARPER MAN RIDES FORTH. 

"Why do you wander here, my good harper?" 
asked the hermit, when the last strain melted away 
in low, airy echoes . over the lake. "There are 
neither lads to dance nor lassies to sing. This hill 



I 



is my dominion, and the dominion of a hermit i 
solitude." 

" See you not Loch Lomond silvered in thi 
moon?" said the jolly harper man. "Nature in 
spired me to touch my harp, and I love to plat 
when the inspiration of nature comes upon me." 

The answer pleased the hermit as much as thi 
music. 

" But why is your music so sad, my good harpe 
man ; what is there that you would have that for 
tune denies?" 

"Alas!" said the jolly harper man, "I am ven 
poor. My harpings all die in the air, and leave me 
but a scanty purse, poor clothing, and no roof ovej 
my head. You are a man of wisdom, to whom al 
things are clear. Point out to me the way to for 
tune, my wise hermit. I have a good libera 
heart ; you could not do a service to a more de 
serving man." 

The old hermit sat down on a stone in silence 
resting his chin on his staff. He seemed lost ir 
profound thought. At last he looked up, and saic 
slowly, pausing between each sentence — 

"Beyond the border there is a famous country 
in that country there is a palace ; near the palace 
there is a stable, and in that stable there is a state! 
horse. That horse is the pride of the kingdom 
the man who would get possession of that horse| 
without the king's knowledge, might exchange him 
for a province." 

"Wonderful! wonderful! But — " 

"Near Striveling town there is a hill; on th 

hillside is a lot ; in the lot is a fine gray mare, ancfj 

beside the gray mare is a foal." 

" Yes, yes ! wonderful ! but — " 

"I must now reveal to you one of the secrets of na 

ture. Separate that mare from the foal, though i 

be for hundreds of miles, and, as soon as she i 

free, she will return to her foal again. Nature ha: 

taught her how, just as she teaches the birds oi 

passage the way to sunny islands ; or the dog t< 

find the lost hunter ; or — " 

"Yes, yes; all very wonderful, but — " 
"In your hand you carry a harp ; in the harj 
lies the power to make merry ; a merry king make: 
a festive board, and festivity produces deep sleej 
in the morning hours." 

The jolly harper man saw it all in a twinkling 
the way to fortune lay before him clear as sun 
light. Perhaps you, my young reader, do not ge 
the idea so suddenly. If not, I fear you are no 
- gifted like the good hermit, with Clearness ol 
Vision. 

The jolly harper man returned to Striveling th 
next day, after spending the night with the hermit 
on the borders of Loch Lomond. 

The following night he was summoned to pla; 



: 



■874-: 



THE JOLLY HARPER MAN. 



T 39 



Deforc two famous Scottish knights, Sir Charles and 
Dir Roger. They were very valiant, very rich and, 
vhen put into good humor, were very liberal. 

The jolly harper man played merrily. The great 
lall of the castle seemed full of larks, nightingales, 
■ ;Ives and fairies. 

" Why, man," said Sir Roger to Sir Charles, 
n a mellow mood, " you and I could no more harp 
ike that than we could gallop out of Carlisle on the 
iiorse of the king." 

" Let me make a prophecy," said the jolly harper 
nan at this. " I will one day ride into Carlisle on 
he horse of the king, and will exchange the horse 
or an estate. " 

" And I will add to the estate five ploughs of 
and," said Sir Roger ; "so you never shall lack for 
i home in old Scotland." 

" And I will add to the five ploughs of land, five 
:.housand pounds," said Sir Charles; "so that you 
;hall never lack for good cheer." 

The next morning the jolly harper man was seen 
'iding out of Striveling town on a fine gray marc ; 
)ut a little colt was heard whinnying alone in the 
ligh fenced lot on the side of the hill. 

It had been a day of high festival at Carlisle ; it 
vas now the cool of the summer eve ; the horn of 
he returning hunter was heard in the forest, and 
jaily plumed knights and courtiers were seen ap- 
proaching the illuminated palace, urging their steeds 
lilong the banks of the river Eden, that wound 
through the moonlit landscape like a ribbon of sil- 
ver. 

The feast was at its height. The king's heart was 
-nerry. There only needed some novelty, now that 
:he old diversions had come to an end, to complete 
:he delights of the festive hours. 

Suddenly sweet sounds, as of a tuning harp, 
were heard without the palace. Then music of 
marvelous sweetness seemed to fill the air. The 
.vindows and doors of the palace were thrown open. 
The king himself left the table, and stood listening 
pn the balcony. 

A merry tune followed the airy prelude: it made 
the nerves of the old nobles tingle as though they 
were young again ; and, as for the king, his heart 
began to dance within him. 

"Come in ! come in, my harper man," shouted 
the king, shaking his sides with laughter, and pat- 
ting a fat noble on the shoulder with delight. 
"Come in, and let us hear some more of your 
harping." 

The jolly harper man bowed very low. " I shall 
be glad to serve your grace, but first, give me 
stabling for my good gray mare." 

" Take the animal to my best stables," said the 
king. " 'Tis there I keep my Brownie, the finest 
horse in all the land. " 



The jolly harper man, accompanied by a gay 
groom, then took his horse to the stables, and as 
soon as he came out of the stable-door, struck up 
his most lively and bewitching tune. 




"COME IN! COME IN, MY HARPER MAN." 

The grooms all followed him, and the guards fol- 
lowed the grooms. The servants all came flocking 
into the hall as the jolly harper man entered, and 
the king's heart grew so merry, that all who came 
were made welcome, and given good cheer. 

The small hours of night came at last, and the 
grand people in the hall began to yawn one after 
another. The jolly harper man now played a very 
soothing melody. The king began to yawn, open- 
ing his mouth each time a little wider than before, 
and finally he dozed off in his chair, his head 
tilted back, and his mouth stretched almost from 
ear to ear. The fat nobles, too, began to snore. 
First the king snored, and then the nobles, which 
was a very proper way of doing the thing, the bliss- 
ful sound passing from nose to nose, and making a 
circuit of the tables. 

The guards, grooms and servants began to feel 
very comfortable, indeed, and though it was their 
business to keep awake, their eyelids grew very 
heavy, and they began to reason that it would be 
perfectly safe to doze while their masters were 
sleeping. Who ever knew any mischief to happen 
when everybody was asleep ? 

The jolly harper man now played his dreamiest 
music, and just as the cock crew for the first time 
in the morning, he had the satisfaction of seeing 
the last lackey fall asleep. He then blew out the 
lights, and crept nimbly forth to the stables. He 



140 



IS N'T* IT SO? 



[January 



found the stable door unlocked, and the gray mare 
kicking impatiently about, and whinnying for her 
foal. 

Now, what do you suppose the jolly harper man 
did? Guess, if you have Clearness of Vision. He 
took from his pocket a stout string, and tied the 
halter of the king's horse, the finest in all the 
land, to the halter of his own animal, and patting 
the fine gray mare on her side said: "And now 
go home to your foal." 

The next morning all was consternation in the 
palace. The king's horse was gone. The king 
sent for the jolly harper man, and said — 

" My horse has escaped out of the stables, the 
finest animal in all the land !" 

"And where is my fine gray mare?" asked the 
jolly harper man. 

" Gone, too," said the king. 

"1 will tell you what I think," said the jolly 
harper man, with wonderful confidence. " 1 
think that there has been a rogue in the town." 

The king, with equal wisdom, favored the idea, 
and the jolly harper man made an early escape that 
morning from the palace. 

Then the jolly harper man went as fast as he 
could to Striveling; of course, he found his fine 
gray mare in the lot with her foal, and the king's 
horse tied to her halter ; and, of course, he rode 
the noble animal into Carlisle ; and he, presenting 
himself before the two knights, Sir Roger and Sir 
Charles, claimed his five ploughs of land and five 
thousand pounds. 

"Goto! go to!" cried Sir Roger, pointing at 
him in derision ; and Sir Charles laughed a mighty 



laugh of scorn. "The man does not live wh 
could ride away the king's Brownie ! Go to ! " 

" The king's Brownie stands in your own court ! 
cried the jolly harper man, and Sir Roger anc 




'GO TO ! GO TO 



Sir Charles paid their forfeits without another 
word. 

Then the jolly harper man returned the king's 
horse to the royal owner — and who ever heard of 
such a thing as a king breaking his promise ? Not 
the jolly harper man, you may be sure. 



IS N'T IT SO? 

Hark! hark! O my children, hark! 

When the sky has lost its blue 
What do the stars sing, in the dark ? 

" We must sparkle, sparkle, through." 



What do leaves say in the storm. 

Tossed, in whispering heaps, together ? 
'• We can keep the violets warm 

'Till they wake in fairer weather." 



What do happy birdies say. 

Flitting through the gloomy wood ? 
: We must sing the gloom away — 
Sun or shadow, God is good." 



»4-] 



WHAT THE CHRIST-CHILD BROUGHT. 



HI 



WHAT THE CHRIST-CHILD BROUGHT. 

A Christinas Story. 



By M. Lockwood. 



If any of you, my little readers, could have 
eeped, in fairy-tale fashion, into the third floor 
'indows of No. 70 Oppenheimer Strasse, in Ber- 
n, very early on the morning of December 24th, 
870, you would have been astonished at the stir 
nd excitement of the orderly little household, 
lotwithstanding the bitter cold, the children were 
ressed and stirring before the sun was fairly risen, 
oon, Frau Hoffmann, the gentle housemother, 
uieting the laughing children, gathered her flock 
round the breakfast table, and after Fritzel, the 
oungest, had said grace, the children began to 
at, more from a sense of duty than from any 
esire for breakfast, on this particular morning. 

"I have so much on my mind," said twelve-year- 
Id Paul, and with an air of importance, "that I 
ave hardly time to eat. With your permission, 
ood little mother, I will slip a bit in my pocket 
> satisfy myself in case I feel hungry. Let me 
;e: I have several purchases to make, an engage- 
ment to go skating, then the poem I am to recite 
1 papa, and — " 

"Gently, my Paul," said the mother. "There 

abundance of time for all, and while you are eat- 

.g — for a good breakfast is needed with such a long 

ay's work before you — I will explain what I would 

live you do for me." 

"Ah," said a fair-haired maiden of fourteen 

.:ars, the eldest daughter of the house, " how 

[.tie we thought our Christmas would be so happy, 

hen dear papa went to the war last summer. 

ow thankful we should feel that he is coming 

>me, since so many poor children in Berlin are 

thout any father to-day," and tears of pity came 

to her innocent blue eyes, as she thought of the 

ousands of orphans made by the cruel war then 

,ging beyond the Rhine. 

" Children," said the mother, " we have, indeed, 

use to be thankful, and we ought to show our 

ankfulness by deeds, not by words only ; so I 

ink, if you all agree, we will take a portion of 

:r Christmas money, instead of spending it on 

r bon-bons and cakes, and buy a little tree, with 

ts, and apples, and tapers, for the poor Heyses, 

the next street. Paul shall go now for it, and 

rry it to their mother's, if you consent. Then 

ch of my little girls and Fritzel may choose a 

ild to whom you would like to send something, 

d Olga and I will carry it, in your names." 



"Yes, yes! mother," cried Paul, "and 1 am 
all ready to go." 

" The Heyses will be so pleased," cried little 
Olga, and all the children expressed delight at 
their mother's suggestion, but it was some time 
before the plan was fully laid out, made, and 
each one had handed to the mother, out of his or 
her little store, the money for the purchase of the 
gifts. In the meantime, Paul darted off for his fur 
cap and gloves, and after whispering a little plan 
of his own into his mother's ear, and getting her 
nod of approval, started on his way to the Jahr- 
markt. This Christmas Jahrmarkt was a familiar 
place to the young Hoffmanns, and would, I am- 
sure, be greatly enjoyed by American children, with 
holiday money in their pockets. What a splendid 
place! A great city square, or "markt," as it is 
called, is filled with streets and streets of temporary 
booths; here every imaginable Christmas ware is 
sold, from the small forests of Christmas trees in 
the corners of the square — great, stately cedars 
and spruces, as well as the twig boughs fastened to 
cross bits of wood hardly big enough to bear the 
weight of half a dozen gilt nuts and apples — down 
to the glass balls and gay tapers, and funny little 
" Knecht Ruprechts," made of dried prunes, stuck 
on cross sticks, in rude representation of a man. 
One of these is always placed on the Christmas tree 
— on the gayest as well as on the humblest. 
There are little shows in some of the booths, where 
for a few groschen one can see wonderful and 
delightful things — puppets and dioramas, or even 
dwarfs and giants. 

One can hardly imagine a German child's Christ- 
mas complete without this charming Jahrmarkt. 
It is like fairy-land for two weeks, in the brown old 
square, so dull for the rest of the year, so bewilder- 
ing now with its lines of glittering booths, tempting 
in their display of treasures, all soon to vanish back 
to Knecht Ruprecht's kingdom, to be kept safe 
there for another year. 

One might easily mistake those comical, weazened 
little men, who keep the booths, in their shaggy 
coats and old fur caps, for servants of the jolly 
Christmas elf — the Christ-child's messenger; and, 
as the legends say, dispenser of his bounty. Knecht 
Ruprecht is none other than our Kriss Kringle or 
Santa Claus, not much changed for the worst, as he 
crosses the Western seas, nor much less in favor 



142 



WHAT THE CHRIST-CHILD BROUGHT. 



[Januas 



with our young folks at home than with the little 
fair-haired Germans. 

Paul knew just where to buy his modest little tree, 
with its ornaments, and added, with his own money, 
a generous package of the biggest and sweetest 
bon-bons he could find in the " markt. " 

Finally, laden with his bounty, the little messen- 
ger of the Christ-child — for such, on these occasions, 
he had been taught to consider himself — started for 
the Heyses' humble dwelling, to be gladly welcomed 
by little ones whom the bountiful Christ-child visit- 
ed in no other open, visible way. 

Meanwhile, at home, the children had retreated 
into private corners, each busy and mysterious 
over Christmas preparations. Eight-years-old 01- 
ga, behind the big porcelain stove in the dwell- 
ing room, was straining her pretty brown eyes over 
a beautiful smoking cap, which must be finished 
before dinner, and ready to go on Papa's gift table. 
These little German maidens are wonderfully skillful 
with the needle. Carlotta was knitting away in 
another corner — her tiny fingers plying with aston- 
ishing deftness, as the bright needles glittered 
through the scarlet worsted. 

Her present was for Mamma, who must not see 
it on any account. Even Fritzel was desperately 
busy with something, which nobody in the world 
must guess anything about, while the mother and 
Gretchen, the fair-haired speaker at breakfast, had 
retired into the salon, where they were, oh! so busy 
with a wonderful Christmas tree, which everyone 
knew was locked up in the silent, dark room, though 
nobody mentioned the fact, except in whispers. 

The father of this happy little band, a professor 
at the Polytechnic School, had gone with the army 
in July, on its march to the Rhine. He was a pri- 
vate in the gallant Konigin Elisabeth Regiment, of 
the army corps in which he had served out his time 
in his youth, and in which he had now enlisted. 
With a heavy heart, but with a brave, cheerful face, 
the gentle little wife bade him God-speed, while she 
remained behind with their helpless flock, depend- 
ent on her care alone. It was very hard ; but she 
was a true-hearted little patriot, so did not falter, 
but bore up nobly, even when, with her own fingers, 
she sewed the little label to the lining of his uniform 
coat, on which she had carefully written his name 
and address, so that he might be known in any case 
of fatal accident. 

All through the summer, however, the news was 
so bright, so glorious, that the loving little house- 
hold of Fritz Hoffmann forgot the danger, and only 
exulted that their dear one was destined to share 
the laurels of the conquering hosts, until the news 
came of the victory at Sedan, and with it the fa- 
ther's name on the list of wounded. Then followed 
long days of suspense, and the fear of something 



worse, the impossibility of going to him in a hosti 
country, and the dread of his exposure to great 
dangers, and, at last, the intense sense of relif 
when a letter came from himself, written in the ho 
pital at Versailles, to which he had been remove 
telling them that he had obtained a furlough f 
Christmas, and leave to remain at home until ful 
restored and capable of taking his place in the ran 
again. Hence the joy to-day, and the glad prep;i 
ations. 

At ten o'clock, the mother, having set everythir 
in readiness for the happy evening, even to the tra 
of supper refreshments in the store-room, and tl 
torch laid ready by the tree to light the tapers with: 
came into the dwelling-room cloaked and wrappt 
in furs. "I must go out for an hour or so, de 
children," she said; "be good, and obey sist 
Gretel, while I am gone." 

" Thou goest to bring the dear father, — is it n 
so, Miitterchen ? " And Fritzel hung to her skirl 
and pulled the tassels of her muff. 

Wise little Carlotta, who had jumped up hastil 
and held her hands behind her, full of knittii 
work, tossed back her mass of flaxen hair, and brol 
in with " Ach win, thou foolish Fritzel, the fath 
comes only after dinner." Mother kissed the litt 
boy's earnest, dimpled face, and went out, laughit 
softly to herself in the happiness of her heart, whi 
Olga, who had hardly got through with her work 
time, hurried after her, drawing on warm mitte 
as she went half a flight behind Fran Hoffmann ; 
the way down stairs. They were much alike, tl: 
mother and little daughter, and the mother w 
little and young looking too, seeing that she h: 
the responsibility of so many children on her shoi 
ders ; right motherly, though, dear little soul, wi 
a firm way about her, in spite of her lovely brow 
eyes and gentle looks. 

" Bless the dear heaven who is bringing rr 
Fritz back to me ! " she thought. " I do wonder 
he will think the children much improved ! " si 
mused for, at least, the hundredth time in her for 
mother's heart. " Our Gretchen is such a womai 
and a real comfort, and Paul has been truly a got 
boy while the dear father has been away. The 
Fritzel, and Carlotta and my Olga," — smiling, ar 
holding out her hand to the little girl, who, lade 
with a basket, now joined her, and the sweet motl 
erly eyes filled with happy tears as she named ov 
her treasures. 

They presently entered a mean-looking doo 
and went up flight after flight of stairs to the roon 
of some of their pensioners. To one poor soldier 
family after another the two went like Christm; 
angels, leaving gifts for the little ones who had r 
father on earth, this Christmas-day, and comfortin 
more than one mother's heart with reminders c 



i8 7 4-J 



WHAT THE CHRIST-CHILD BROUGHT. 



143 



the dear Father in heaven, who cares for the widow 
and orphans, raising up for them friends in the bit- 
ter hour of need. The round of visits was com- 
pleted, and near noon, Olga was despatched home 
with an important message to old Christel, the 
cook, and Frau Hoffmann, wrapping her fur cape 
more closely about her — for the wind was keen and 
bitter — set off at a quick pace for " Unter den Lin- 
den," where she had an errand at a tempting book- 
seller's shop. Here, carefully, she selected the 
beautiful book, Riickert's poems, illustrated, — it 
happened to be a favorite of her own and her hus- 
band's, — in which she inscribed, then and there, the 
beloved name, for fear she would be too much hur- 
ried at home to do it properly. Her pleasant task 
accomplished, she set her face homeward ; but a 
few steps from the book store, was a telegraph 
office, round which a crowd had collected — so cus- ' 
tomary an occurrence, however, in these war times, 
that she did not pause to wonder at it, besides (she 
thought of this afterwards with a passion of r;morse 
at her selfishness), was not all she cared for in the 
war on its way to her at this moment ? What to 
her, in comparison, was prince or king, beleagured 
city or hostile camp, or even fatherland itself? At 
this moment a familiar face confronted hers, the 
owner thereof pushing through the crowd; but it 
was such a pale, haggard face, with such startled 
eyes, that the sight of it thrilled her with a vague 
dread. It was old Hcrr Scharlach, a friend and 
colleague of her husband, at the Polytechnic. He 
saw her ; and growing a shade paler, half turned 
aside, as though he wished to avoid her ; but she 
had noticed something — a white paper — in his hand, 
partly thrust behind him ; and scarce knowing what 
she expected or thought, she seized his arm with an 
imploring "What is it, my friend; what have you 
heard ? " All her light-hearted confidence had 
vanished. A great blank dread stared her in the 
face. She seemed to read her doom in Herr Schar- 
lach's averted glance, as mechanically she held out 
her hand for the paper. Then he roused himself. 
"Only a skirmish, dear madam," he managed to 
say in a constrained voice. 

" Let me see." 

She spoke coldly and clearly, — all the feeling 
gone out of her tones. She took the paper — a bul- 
letin. At one glance she saw it amid an hundred 
names, the one — the only one for her — " Killed, 
Private F. Hoffmann, Queen Elizabeth Regiment, 

Company." That was all. It happened in a 

skirmish, near Mont Aaron, against Le Bourget, 
two days before, when that company had lost heav- 
ily. She took it all in somehow ; and when she 
looked up from the paper it was as though she had 
been reading it for hours, and she seemed to have 
known it all a hundred years before. It was an old, 



old sorrow, but a sorrow that would always endure, 
the bitterness of death, which should never be over- 
past. She raised her pitiful, sad eyes to the good 
old professor's face, and only said in a dreamy, far- 
away voice, " Oh, the poor children!" and would 
have fallen to the ground had not he supported 
her, while the pitying bystanders, who saw with 
the keen sight that came of daily sad experience, 
flocked to her help. A near droschke was sum- 
moned, and she w r as lifted into it and driven to her 
now stricken home, desolate of its dearest hope. 
Paul, rosy and merry, muffled against the cold, 
with his skates slung over his shoulder, fresh from 
a skating frolic on the pond in the public garden, 
near by, came bounding up to the door as the horse 
stopped, and sprang forward to assist his mother 
and their friend ; but when he saw her pale, lifeless 
face he was terrified, and began to cry, " My dear 
little mother, — what ails her ? Mein Herr, ach, 
tell me ! " he entreated. The poor old professor, 
trembling and agonized himself, could not answer 
him. When poor Frau Hoffmann had been carried 
up the long flight of stairs to her bright little home, 
which she had left so blithely not three hours before, 
and laid on the sofa in the dwelling-room, she 
opened her eyes at last, and they rested on the 
children, who, pale and weeping, had gathered 
closely around her. The kind old Herr had told 
the little orphans, in broken tones, of their bereave- 
ment by this time, and they, overwhelmed as they 
were, still hardly realized their terrible loss ; but, 
so much the more, the stricken condition of the 
dear mother before them, for whose sake they now 
strove to be quiet and calm. But she opened her 
arms and they crowded close to her, their sobs now 
breaking out as though the little hearts would burst 
with grief. "Gone, gone, Fritz," was all she said, 
very low ; but Gretchen heard her and nestled closer. 
The slow, wretched hours had dragged along to- 
wards night, — the eagerly expected, happy night, 
which had turned to such misery and despair ; it 
was growing dusk. Four little lonely figures were 
huddled closely together behind the great stove — 
the friendly German stove, with its red velvet fringed 
mantle shelf against the gleaming white tiles, — the 
only prominent white object in the darkening room. 
The door leading into the mother's room was a 
little ajar; for Gretchen had just crept in softly to 
see if the dear, patient little mother was asleep. 
Fritzel was leaning against his brother, who had 
thrown his arm around the little fellow, and said 
presently, in a half whisper, " Won't Papa come 
for our Christmas tree at all? " with a grieving 
voice; "will the Christ-child know it, and not com; 
either?" "The Christ-kindlem will come, I 
think!" said Olga; "because he will want to 
comfort us, and tell us what Papa will do on Christ- 



144 



WHAT THE CHRIST- CHILD BROUGHT. 



[January, 



through the keyhole ; and seeing only blackness, 
however eagerly the little eyes might peer, they gave 
up, and stole back disappointed to the stove. ' ' I know 
the dear Christ-child won't forget us," said Olga ; 
'"I don't want the gifts ; but I do want to know about 
come soon Olga ? " whispered poor little Carlotta. our Papa, and that would comfort Mother. I learn- 



mas in heaven. Papa told me last year that there 
was Christmas in heaven." 

Fritzel and Carlotta, to whom Olga's word was 
gospel, turned their eyes toward the door of the 
salon, at the opposite end of the room. "Will he 




UNA SENDING THE CHILDREN AND WORK-PEOPLE AWAY. 



" I am so tired and sorry here, in the dark," with 
a little sob in her voice, which she tried to suppress 
for fear the mother would hear it. " Will we see the 
light when he does come? for if Mamma is n't in the 
room he might go away, and we not know it. " 

"O, Carlotta," said Paul, sadly, "how can you 
care for Christmas trees when dear Papa is gone, 
and the Mother so ill ! " 

But little Carlotta and Fritzel, hand in hand, had 
slipped away from the others, and groped their way 
up to the closed door for the purpose of peeping 



ed a little text last Sunday — ' Blessed are ye that 
mourn, for ye shall be comforted ; ' and Mamma 
told me that Jesus said that himself; so I'm sure 
it's true." Just then, Gretchen came out — "Mam- 
ma sends me to tell you all that she wants to hear 
our Christmas hymn." There was a little settling 
down and whispering, and a sob from Paul ; for 
this was to have been their greeting to the dear 
father, who would never come to hear it now. Then, 
led by Gretchen's sweet, clear voice, the beautiful 
Christmas music rose and filled the room, filling; 



1874-J 



WHAT THE CHRIST-CHILD BROUGHT. 



H5 



the heart of the poor mother with comfort too, and 
bringing the first tears of relief to her dry, despair- 
ing eyes, as she lay crushed by her sorrow, in the 
dark room near by. 

Thou dear and holy Christ ! what bliss 
Thy coming to thy children is ; 
For thou can'st make us pure and white, 
God's children, pleasing in His sight. 

Oh, bless us ! we are young and small ; 
Oh, free our hearts from sinful thrall ! 
Oh, make our spirits free from sin, — 
Thy fount of heavenly love within. 

As the last echoes of the sweet carol died on the 
2ar, a bright ray of light streamed through the key- 
tole of the salon door, and flooded the threshold. 
?ritzel saw it first, and sprang towards the door, 
tapping his hands. "The Christ-child! he is 
:ome ! Oh, open ! open ! " he shouted. Carried 
Lway by excitement and the delightful remembrance 
)f last year, when they all waited thus in the dark 
or the lighting up in the salon and the opening of 
he door, he wholly forgot, for an instant, the sor- 
owful reality. 

But, at that moment, the door flew open. The 
>eautiful, brilliant tree stood in the centre of the 
i;reat room, towering from polished floor nearly to 
he frescoed ceiling, and little white tables, laden 
irith treasures, were grouped around it in a semi- 
lircle. 

A lovely fair-haired image of the Christ-child 
lashed high above the lights and evergreens with a 
hining star on his head ; and on the threshold 
tood a very different figure — a tall figure in gray, 
nth a soldier's cap, which opened its arms as little 
'ritzel sprang forward with the cry, "Papa! 
'apa ! " 
She never knew how she got there ; but almost 

efore Fritzel's joyous cry, the mother was out in 
■ie dwelling-room in her white wrapper, and safe in 

is own strong, living arms, close to his warm, true 

eart. 

" My Marga," he had whispered ; " my best little 
rife." 
S She knew nothing else ; desired to comprehend 
I othing. She had him, and was satisfied. 
J But the children were not. When the elder ones 
; illy realized that it was indeed himself — his living 

:lf, and no other — returned to their midst again, 

ley clamored to know what it all meant, and the 
i :tle ones, half afraid to approach now, whis- 

:red together as if they thought he must be an an- 
I si, after all. 
I, Attracted and alarmed by the commotion, old 

hristel and the maid, Lina, came running in, and 



their wondering exclamations, coupled with the 
children's excitement, made the father realize 
that something unusual had occurred before his 
return. 

The wife led him to his seat near the fire, and 
they all crowded about him, talking so fast and 
eagerly that he finally was obliged to hush them all, 
and tell Gretchen to be spokeswoman. Then he 
told his tale : 

" I left Versailles five days ago," he told them, 
"and was not even present at the attack on Le 
Bourget, which began December 21st, as the tele- 
grams state ; but there was another Private Hoff- 
mann in my company — Franz Hoffmann, from 
Potsdam — which accounts for the mistake, and he 
must have fallen, poor fellow. I have not seen the 
list. He had been with us only a few days ; and 
though I knew him but little, he was counted a 
good comrade and a genial man. I trust he does 
not leave many to mourn him." And looking 
around on the little household band he bowed his 
head in silence for a moment. 

" I wanted to surprise you all," he continued, 
" as I reached the house. I knew your mother's 
arrangements were to be just like those of last year, 
from her letters. The doors were open, so I just 
stole in, and finding everything ready to my hand, 
was there to receive the Christ-child, little thinking 
what a strange surprise I would give you ; little 
dreaming that I was to appear as one risen from 
the dead. I waited while you sung your Christmas 
hymn, dear children, hardly able to restrain my im- 
patience, wondering all the time why the dear little 
mother did n't steal in to see if the Christ-child 
had come." 

Paul sprang up then with a sudden thought of 
the neglected Christmas tree: "Oh, the tree! 
we're all forgetting it, and our splendid tapers are 
fast burning away." So, followed speedily by all, 
he ran into the next room, into the midst of the 
Christmas warmth and beauty. 

The children were soon wild with delight over the 
wonderful gifts on their separate little tables, and 
Fritzel and Carlotta were shouting and clapping 
their hands under the tall sparkling tree, down from 
the height of which the fair, waxen face of the 
Christ-child image seemed to smile on the happy 
little ones. 

Loving little Olga, who fully realized by this time 
that her papa was not an angel, but living and real, 
the best gift the dear Christ-child could have 
brought her, nestled up to his side and pulled him 
gently by the hand over to his special little table. 

Gretchen, the good, careful little maiden, had 
slipped out during the confusion and brought in 
the gifts, which, just completed, had not been 
placed there after the dreadful news came. 



140 



THE PRINCES IN THE TOWER. 



IJANUARY.it 



All the children crowded up to watch and com- 
ment on Papa's, pleasure, as he examined his gifts, 
praising the skill of this and the thoughtfulness of 
that donor, as he did so. 

Just then, there was a violent ring at the entrance 
bell, and in another second the old professor burst 
into the room, looking like Knecht Ruprecht him- 
self, in his enormous shaggy overcoat and fur cap, 
carrying a big basket, and fairly beaming and over- 
sowing with true German glee. 

Good news travels fast. 

Almost before the family were sure of the fact 
themselves, the happy tidings seemed to have spread 
in some mysterious way, and other friends soon filled 
the room ; coming in, they said, for just a look at 
the dead returned to life again. 

The children and work-people of the neighbor- 
hood ran up and down the steps, calling out to Lina 
and asking questions, till she was forced to drive 
them away. 



"The street's fairly alive with our good news,' 
she whispered to Gretchen, as she ran in, panting 
to see the beautiful tree and receive her gifts with 
a pretty show of surprise. 

Frau Hoffmann, who had disappeared for a few 
moments, returned presently in her pretty blue 
dress, which had been especially prepared for this 
happy occasion, followed by Christel and Lina with 
the refreshment trays. Then there was jubilee, 
indeed. 

The Christmas greeting passed around, and the 
Children's Christmas hymn was called for. What 
a joyous strain the music took this time ! How out 
of each heart in that now blessed little family rose 
the song of thanksgiving ! 

Gretchen and Paul, Olga, Carlotta and Fritzel 
laid happy little heads on their pillows that memor 
able night ; and, I think, the dear Christ-child sent 
them beautiful dreams to herald in the holy Christ- 
mas-day? 



THE PRINCES IN THE TOWER. 

See Frontispiece. 

By M. M. D. 



Just three hundred and ninety years ago, two 
noble boys were traveling in state from Ludlow 
Castle to London. An escort of two thousand 
horsemen rode with them; and although the boys 
had just lost their father, King Edward IV, and 
were dressed in sober black, I have no doubt that 
hundreds of happy children who saw them pass, 
looked with delight at the grand cavalcade, and 
thought it a fine thing to be a prince. Their mo- 
ther called the boys Edward and Richard; but Ed- 
ward being the eldest, — though only thirteen years 
of age, — was His Royal Highness, the Prince of 
Wales, rightful heir to the English throne ; and 
Richard, his brother, a boy of eleven, was known 
as the Duke of York. 

Yes, many a boy and girl looked almost with 
envy that day upon the two royal children, and 
wondered how it felt to be the son of a king and 
lord of a nation. 

But the men and women who looked on thought 
of something very different. They shook their 
heads and whispered their misgivings to each other. 

It was dreadful, they said; such brave, beau- 
tiful, noble lads, too ; and their father hardly cold 
in his grave — poor, dear things ! But then they 
would be in the power of their uncle Richard, Duke 
of Gloucester, the wickedest, cruelest and most 
powerful nobleman in all England. But for these 
boys, in all their pride of youth, my lord of Glou- 
cester might be king of England. 



Ah, who could say what might happen ! 

English history tells us what happened : how the 
wicked Duke of Gloucester pretended at first to be 
all loyalty and kindness ; how he wrote a letter of 
condolence to the queen mother, and set off from 
Scotland, where he was commanding an army, to 
be present, he said, at his dear nephew's corona 
tion ; and how, with fair words and treachery, he 
first placed the Prince in the Tower of London, 
where " he would be safer than anywhere else, un 
til the grand ceremony should take place; " how 
he afterwards took the little Duke of York from his 
sobbing mother and put him, too, in the dreary 
Tower ; and how . 

But you see them in the picture. They are to- 
gether ; that is some comfort. Their chamber is 
grandly furnished, but it is in a prison. Not the 
Prince of Wales, nor the Duke of York, now, but 
two heart-sick, terrified boys, who every moment 
dread — they hardly know what. If they only could 
feel their mother's arm about them once again ! 
They have prayed and prayed, and they have cried 
till they can cry no more, and, with breaking hearts, 
they have straightened themselves proudly with the 
thought that they are the sons of a king, when sud- 
denly they hear a footstep outside. 

***** 

To this da) r , visitors at the Tower are shown the 
very spot at the foot of the gloomy stone stairs where 
the bodies of the murdered Princes were buried. 



i874-l 



THE BOY WHO WORKED. 



147 



Delaroche, a Frenchman, painted the large pic- 
ture from which our engraving is made. He had 
the story of the princes in his heart ; and though 
he may or may not have loved England, he certainly 
loved these two English boys ; else how could he 
have so painted them, that stout men feel like sob- 
bing when they look at the wonderful picture? It 
hangs, to-day, in the gallery of the Luxembourg, in 
Paris ; and every day children stand before it, feeling 
not at all as the children did who saw the princes 
ride by in state, nearly four hundred years ago. 

I have not told you all about Edward and Rich- 
ard, after all. Those of you who know what hap- 
pened will hardly wish to hear the sad story again, 
and those who do not, may read it whenever they 
will ; for it stands recorded on earth and in heaven. 



And the history of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, 
also stands recorded. 

Here is the end of it : 

There had been a terrible battle, at the close of 
which a crown was picked up, all bruised and tramp- 
led and stained with blood, and put upon Henry of 
Richmond's head, amid loud and rejoicing cries of 
" Long live King Henry ! " 

''That night, a horse was led up to the church 
of the Grey Friars, at Leicester, across whose back 
was tied, like some worthless sack, a naked body, 
brought there for burial. It was the body of the 
last of the Plantagenet line, King Richard the 
Third, usurper and murderer, slain at the battle of 
Bosworth Field, in the thirty-second year of his age, 
after a miserable reign of two years." 



THE BOY WHO WORKED. 
By Ros well -Smith. 



% Wfe ' 




'don't you want a ride?" 



It was a beautiful day in the early Spring of 
18 — . I lived at the West then, in one of those 
half rural cities for which the West is so famed. I 
had started out for a drive. 

The air was balmy as June. The mud in the 
streets had dried up, the birds were going mad 



with joy, — the hum of bees, and the fragrance of 
blossoms mingled with the song of the birds. 

Soon I was gaily speeding along the graveled 
road ; down through Dublin, as we called the 
poorer quarter of the town (though the real Dub- 
lin is a handsome and well-built city), out into the 



148 



THE BOY WHO WORKED. 



[January, 



country. The horses seemed to share my pleasure 
and enthusiasm in the drive, as I have no doubt 
they did. Their sleek, glossy coats glistened in the 
sunshine, and they arched their necks, and moved 
proudly, knowing well the hand that held the reins, 
and loving the tones of the voice behind them. 

The odors of the great Dublin Pork Packing Es- 
tablishment were wafted to us, as we dashed past 
its great dark walls and noisome vaults ; past the 
squalid cabins of squatters ; past the great distiller- 
ies, with their tall chimnies, belching clouds of 
smoke that seemed to come from subterranean 
fires ; past great rumbling country wagons, with 
half-drunken drivers, going home from the dis- 
tilleries with the money from the sale of their 
loads of corn, except what they had spent for gro- 
ceries and calico, or drunk up in whiskey ; past 
slowly plodding farm teams, with sober farmers in 
grey — and women (seated in straight-backed 
kitchen chairs in the old farm wagons), in costumes 
of all shades and colors, with calico sun-bonnets 
hiding faces old and peaceful, or young and giddy, 
alike ; past rattling and noisy vehicles of all sorts, 
out into the soft and sponge-like roads, bordered 
by the green fields, and the whispering trees of the 
country, where rattle and sound ceased. 

Just ahead of me I saw walking on the road a 
very small boy. He was dressed in plain clothes, 
known as Kentucky Jean. On his head he wore, 
even thus early in the Spring, a plain straw hat ; 
over his shoulder he carried a bundle, tied up in a 
red silk handkerchief, and slung upon a stick. In 
his hand he held his great heavy shoes, whilst he 
tugged on manfully and wearily, sore of foot, and 
sore of heart, I had no doubt. 

I drove quickly past, and then stopped and 
looked back, and waited until the little fellow came 
up. 

" Halloa," I said, " don't you want a ride ? " 

" To be sure I do," said he. 

" Then, why didn't you ask me," said I. 

"Because," said he, "I had asked so many 
times, and been refused so often, that I had got 
discouraged, and I didn't think you would let me," 
with some emphasis on the " you." 

"Well," I said, "get in." He stood looking 
hopelessly up into the cushioned and carpeted 
buggy, and down at his bundle and his stick, and 
his heavy soiled shoes. 

"I am afraid I aint very clean," he said, at 
last. 

" Oh! never mind," I said. "Get in; this ve- 
hicle was made for use." 

" I'd better leave my stick," he said. 

"Oh, no!" I answered. "You may want it 
again." 

And so he climbed in, and the bundle was stowed 



away under the seat, and the stick put down 
between us. 

"I never rode in such a nice carriage before, 
and I don't think I ever saw such horses," he went 
on, and his eyes fairly sparkled. 

"Do you want to drive?" 

"May I?" 

"Yes, if you know how." And so I gave him 
the reins, and we were friends at once. 

" Who did you ask to let you ride ?" I asked. 

" Oh ! all those men in the great farm wagons." 

" And what did they say? " 

" If they had a load they said they couldn't, and 
if they had no load, they only smacked their great 
whips, and rattled by the faster, or yelled at me to 
get out of the road." 

" And you didn't ask me. Did you think be- 
cause I had nice horses, and a fine carriage, and 
wore good clothes, and looked like a gentleman, 
that therefore I wasn't one ? " I said laughingly. 

"Well — yes — I'm afraid I did; but," he contin- 
ued, looking me square in the face, "do gentlemen 
always let boys ride, when they want to ? " 

It was my turn to be a little bit puzzled; and I 
said, " I don't think they do ; but a gentleman is one 
who always does all he can to help others and to 
make them happy." 

"Well," said he, "I think you are a gentle- 
man, at any rate." 

And so I said, " Will you tell me who you are, 
for I think you are a gentleman also?" and, yet, he 
hadn't said "thank you," in words once, all this 
time. 

Then he told me his story. His mother lived in 
a log cabin, in a little clearing in the woods, in 
Boone county. His father was dead. They were 
very poor. He had worked for a good Quaker far- 
mer the summer before, who was very kind to his 
boys, and he was going to work for him again. He 
had walked more than twenty miles that day, and 
had five miles further to go. His feet had be- 
come very sore, and so he had taken off his shoes 
and stockings, putting his stockings in the bundle, 
and carrying the shoes in his hand. 

" With all these things to carry, what do you 
carry a stick for ? " I asked. 

" Why, so that I can carry the bundle over my 
shoulder," he answered. 

" Is the bundle heavy? " 

"It didn't seem heavy when I started," he re- 
plied ; " but it does now." 

" Where did you get the stick ? " 

" A man cut it for me in the woods, and told me 
it was just what I needed to help to carry the 
bundle." 

" Well, which is the heavier, — the bundle or the 
stick ? " 



i8 7 4-. 



THE BOY WHO WORKED. 



149 



" I never thought of that. I believe the stick is 
— I know it is," he said at last. 

"Well, now, that was a mistake. You took a 
heavy yoke when you might have had a light one — 
didn't you ? I haven't a doubt but that man laughed 
to see that you were so simple." 

" He did laugh," said the little fellow ; and his 
eyes fairly flashed, and his face flushed with anger 
as he spoke : " that was real mean — don't you think 
so ? " 

"Yes, I do; and I don't think that man was a 
gentleman ; and he pretended all the time to be 
doing you a kindness." 

" Don't you ever impose on a fellow that's smaller 
than you are, in that way," I said. 

" I don't mean to," said he. 

" But you haven't told me your name yet." 

" My name is Richard — they call me Dick for 
short ; but I never could find out why. I don't like 
nicknames. Do you ? " 

" No, I don't. Almost everybody has a nick- 
name, however; but why Richard is called Dick, 
is one of those things one can never find out." 

"Mr. Hollyhead,the farmer I am going to work for, 
always calls me Richard. He's a real good man, 
only I don't get used to the thees and thous yet." 

" Got any girls? " I asked. 

He looked at me a moment, to see if I was mak- 
ing fun, but I kept a sober face, and thus reassured, 
he said, " I guess he has. He has got one." 

" Guess ! " I said, " don't you know ? " 

"Well, I think I ought to. She's just as pretty 
as she can be ; and I like her first rate, 'cause she 
calls me Richard, too, and that makes me feel like 
a man." 

"Do you live far from the railroad?" I asked. 

" Close by," he answered. 

"Why didn't you come on the cars, then ? " 

He hesitated alittle, then said, " 'Cause 'twouldn'i 
pay." 

" What do you mean by that ? " I asked. " May 
be you didn't have the money." 

" Yes, I did. Mother gave me the mpney, and 
she said may be I could come at half-price, as I did 
last year; but, you see, I don't begin work until to- 
morrow, and I wanted to see the country and — and 
— and — well, I just thought I'd walk. Mother put 
me up a nice snack, and so I laid the money in the 
leaves of the big Bible, right at the thirty-seventh 
Psalm, that mother made me promise to read next 
Sunday — for I knew she would read it at the same 
time — with a little note pinned to it saying I would 
walk. But I didn't know it was so awful muddy 
all through the woods, or I dbn't believe I should 
have done it ; but I'm glad I did ; for, if I hadn't, 
I shouldn't have met you ; and I might never have 
known a real gentleman in all my life." ' 



"But," I said, "isn't the man you work for a 
gentleman ? " 

"Well, yes. I suppose he is: but he isn't like 
you." 

"No," I said; "there are a great many real 
gentlemen and ladies in the world. I think this 
Quaker farmer is a gentleman, and that your mother 
is a lady. It is said, ' fine feathers make fine birds,' 
but fuss and feathers, fine manners and fine clothes, 
and fine horses and carriages, and houses and farms 
don't make gentlemen and ladies. Only God can 
make a gentleman." 

"Did you ever read the story of Jacob ? " I asked. 

No, he hadn't ; but he knew about Joseph. 

And so I made him promise to read about Jacob, 
who went out from his father's house with only a stick 
and a bundle, or wallet — much as he had done — 
and slept with a stone for a pillow ; and I asked him 
to be sure and find out what Jacob saw there that 
night as he lay out under the stars, and what wages 
Laban paid to Jacob when he hired out to him, 
which I knew would be a little difficult, as Laban 
changed his wages ten times. Then I asked what 
wages he had. 

He said $9 a month, which I thought was very 
good pay for a small boy. 

And so we rode on together, talking about the 
wages the devil pays to those who work for him, and 
the yoke Christ gives us to bear, until we came to 
the farm-yard gate, where I turned in. He dis- 
mounted with his stick, and bundle and shoes. I 
lingered a moment longer, and he bade me good- 
by, and tramped briskly down the road. 

One evening, in the December following — it was 
almost Christmas time — I sat by a glowing wood 
fire in my parlor : it was raining and freezing with- 
out. I drew nearer to the embers as the door was 
opened, and a great blast of cold air came rushing 
in, without so much as saying, " By your leave ; " and 
with it came my friend Richard. 

He had grown a great deal. He was neatly 
dressed, and was so glad to see me, and I was so 
glad to see him, that all embarrassment was taken 
away at once. 

I introduced him to my wife and my boys, and 
together we recalled the story of the drive; but it 
was evident Richard had come with a purpose. 
There was something in his manner which meant 
business. 

And so I said, "Well, Richard, what is it ? Have 
you and the pretty little girl at the farm had a quar- 
rel?" 

" Not exactly; but I — I have given her up." 

"Ah ! how was that ?" 

" You see, one day she told me she wished I 
wouldn't speak to her when there were other girls 
there, unless I had on my best clothes, for I was 



15° 



THE BOY WHO WORKED. 



[January,! 



such a small boy, and. worked for her father, and 
the girls laughed at her about me ; and I said I 
wouldn't, and I didn't, and I haven't spoken to her 
cince, and I have given up farming too." 




'SHE WISHED 1 WOULD N T SPEAK TO HER 
BEST CLOTHES ! " 



UNLESS I HAD ON MY 



"Given up farming," I said. "Why, what are 
you going to do? " 

" Well, I'm going to try to be a gentleman," he 
answered. 

" Can't a farmer be a gentleman?" I said, think- 
ing what foolishness I must have put into the boy's 
head, by my talk during that ride. 

" Yes, I sposc he can ; but you said there were 
different sorts of gentlemen, and you see I want to 
try and be another kind. When you told me what 
a gentleman was, I thought I'd like to be one; but 
I didn't find it as easy as I expected. Then I re- 
membered you said only God could make a gentle- 
man. I didn't know exactly what you meant, but 
after I had got almost discouraged trying, it came 
to me to ask God's help, and so I am trying harder 
than ever." 

" Well, what sort of a gentleman are you going 
to be?" I asked. 

"That's it," he said. "You see, I'm so little, I 
thought may be I could do more to help others, 
and take care of mother, if I tried something else 
besides farm work." 

" Had any supper?" I said. 

" Guess I have," he answered, proudly. " I'm 
stopping at a hotel." 

" Think it will pay ?" said I, smiling. 

"Well, you see Mr. Hollyhead brought me in, 
and he is coming in again to-morrow. The hotel 
is filled with teamsters and teams, so I asked the 
landlord if I might stay if I would help take 
care of the horses, and he said 'he'd put me 



through,' and he did; and that's the reason it's 
so late, for I have oniy just got through, and had 
my supper." 

" You want I should help you, do you ? " 

"No j I don't want any help. I only want 
advice." 

And so we talked it all over. He hadn' 
been to school much, and he needed mon 
education, and yet he wanted to help support 
his mother, and finally we decided that he 
should go in the morning to the office of T/i, 
Daily Blunderbuss, and see if he could get 
employment there, and learn type-setting, 
I told him he might refer to me. 

The result was, Richard got a place in the 
printing office, and I used to see him occa- 
sionally at work, with his sleeves rolled up, his 
face and hands smeared with ink ; but at night, 
and on Sundays, he was neatly dressed, and 
he and my boys became great friends. 

At the end of the year I took him into my 

office, for I suspected the printing office was 

hardly the best place for him, and he proved 

faithful in all his ways. 

My boys were studying history at that time, and 

they gave him a nickname, which I don't think he 

at all objected to — it was " Richard, Cceur de 

Lion." 

After he had been with me nearly a year, I one 
day asked him suddenly, " what sort of a gentle- 
man he meant to be ? " 

" That's it," said he. " I haven't got education 
enough, and I want to go to school, and work half 
the time." 

So I got him a situation as book-keeper in 
bank, and he worked, and went to night-school, 
and finally fitted himself for college. It was a long 
and hard struggle, but a few years since he gradu- 
ated with honors at the Michigan State University, 
and went to Chicago, where he soon obtained a 
position on one of the daily papers of that city, and 
got a home for himself and for his mother. 

When the great fire came, his business was swept 
away, but the cottage where his mother lived, "on 
the west side," was mercifully spared. In the mean- 
time I had moved to the East, and had lost sight of 
Richard, except as I occasionally heard from him 
by letter, or heard of him from others. 

Fortunately, his capital was in his brains, and a 
great conflagration could not destroy that ; and he 
was soon at work again. 

A few months since, I received a letter, quaint 
and curious, in a lady's handwriting, which com- 
menced, " Respected Friend." It was full of thees 
and thous, and it said, " Richard" (no other name), 
"who was formerly in thy employment, has applied 
to me for a situation as son-in-law. He refers to 



i8 7 4. ) 



LA BOULE DE NEIGE DE JEAN MARTIN. 



151 



thee. Thou knowest there be adventurers abroad. 
I am a lone widow, to whom God has given one 
only daughter. What cans't thou say of Richard?" 

I wrote, "I have no doubt he will fill admirably 
any position he is willing to accept. He is a gentle- 
man, in the best sense of the word, and any lady in 
the land may be proud to become his wife. " 

Soon after, Richard was married; and now it is the 
Christmas time again. I have just received a letter 
from him, in which he says, " We have returned 
from our wedding tour. My wife is a real lady, if 
there ever was one, I am sure. I have got used to 
the thees and thous, and learned to love to be called 
simply, Richard, better than ever. 

" We found a double surprise awaiting us. First, 
an invitation to me to take the position of editor-in- 
chief of the Daily Chicagonian, one of our largest 
papers here, which I have accepted. 

" It had been agreed that we were to come back 
to mother-in-law's, to spend a few days, before 
going to my own home. When we reached the 
house, we found my mother there, and everything 



arranged to make it a permanent home for us 
all. 

"Mother-in-law said she could not live in the 
house alone. 

"After dinner was over, Esther and I explored 
the house, and Esther showed me its treasures of 
closets, and spotless linen and all that ; then we 
spent a pleasant social evening together, and gath- 
ered in the back parlor for prayers. 

" On the table lay mother's big old well-worn 
Bible. I opened to the xxxvii Psalm, and there 
was the money, pinned to the note in my boyish 
handwriting, just as I had left it twenty years be- 
fore. It seems mother could never, in her darkest 
hour, make up her mind to use that money. I 
tried to read, but my voice faltered, and then it 
broke down entirely. Mother and Esther knew what 
it meant; then mother told Mrs. Gwynne the story 
of the walk and the drive, and we all wished that 
you were here to share our happiness." 

Thus it was that the boy who worked came to be 
a real gentle-man at last. 



LA BOULE DE NEIGE DE JEAN MARTIN. 



Par Paul Fort. 



Il y a des gens qui croient que le premier venu 
peut faire une bonne boule de neige, comme ily en 
.! a d'autres qui se figurent que e'est chose aisee de 
bien jouer du violon. 

L'une de ces opinions est aussi fausse que 1'autre. 

Pour faire une vraie bonne boule de neige il faut 

j avoir une /pratique speciale. En premier lieu on 

1 doit savoir choisir de la neige qui ne soit ni trop 

I humide ni trop seche. Ensuite il est necessaire de 

savoir s'y prendre pour faire la boule solide et bien 

I proportionnee et la rendre ferme et dure en la pres- 

sant sans trop de force entre les genoux. En un 

mot, la maniere de faire une boule de neige est une 

science. 

Jean Martin etait un maitre dans cette science. 
C'etait un garcon qui aimait toujours a se perfec- 
tionner dans tout ce qui n'etait pas de son etat. La 
maniere de faire une boule de neige n'etait pas de 
son etat, car Jean etait un apprenti-cordonnier. 

Au commencement de l'hiver de 1872 le sol fut 
couvert d'une magnifique couche de neige. La 
neige n'etait ni trop humide ni trop seche. Jean 
descendit dans la rue pour passer un bon quart 
d'heure a faire des boules de neige. II prit une 

* We shall be glad to have the boys and girls send translations 
of this story. Next month we shall have a German story. 



certaine quantite de neige, la pressa d'abord entre 
ses deux mains, puis entre ses genoux sans trop de 
force et reussit a en faire une magnifique boule. II 
s'agissait maintenant de la jeter a quelque passant 
et la destinee de la boule serait remplie. L'occasion, 
ne se fit pas longtemps attendre ; Jean vit bientot 
arriver de son cote le vieux M. Antoine Blanc et sa 
bonne femme, Mme Blanc. Des qu'ils eurent passe 
devant lui, Jean, apres avoir bien vise, lanca sa 
boule de neige. Puis il baissa les yeux sur le sol 
et parut innocent comme un agneau. Le vieux 
M. Blanc fit un soubresaut. 

" Aie ! " cria-t-il. " Ou'est-ce que e'est? J'ai ete 
frappe par une avalanche de neige. Elle est peut- 
etre tombee d'un toit. Ouf! j'en ai dans mon 
oreille. Ca coule le long de mon cou. Je sens la 
neige sous mon gilet de flanelle. Oh ! comme e'est 
froid ! C'est horrible ! Pourquoi suis-je venu dans 
les rues lorsque la neige tombe ainsi des toits ? " 

Mais sa bonne femme, Mme Blanc, ne s'etait pas 
laisse tromper. Elle savait que la neige n'etait pas 
tombee du toit. Elle s'etait retournee et avait vu 
Jean jeter la boule de neige. "He! mechant gar- 
con ! " exclama-t-elle. "Je vous ai vu. Voub avez 
jete de la neige a mon bon mari. Je vais le direau 
maire, et vous serez mis en prison, jeune vaurien!" 



LA BOULE DE NEIGE DE JEAN MARTIN 




"JEAN PARUT INNOCENT COMME UN AGNEAU." 

"Oh! bonne Mine Blanc!" repondit Jean, "est- long de mon dos, je perirais de froid. Je vous re- 

ce qu'on lance des boules de neige ? Oh ! les mau- mercie, ma bonne dame, de m'avoir averti. Adieu." 

vaisgarcons! J'ai peur que quelqu'un d'entre eux Et l'innocent Jean Martin s'eloigna pour faire 

ne m'envoie une de ces terribles boules de neige. une autre boule de neige qu'il se disposait a jeter 

Je cours chez moi. Je n'ai pas de gilet de fla- derriere l'oreille au premier vieux Monsieur qui 

nelle et si une boule de neige venait a decouler le viendrait a passer. 



i8 74 .J 



FAST FRIENDS. 



153 



FAST FRIENDS. 



By J. T. Trowbridge. 

Author of the " Jatk Hazard" Storks. 



Chapter I. 



A YOUNG CONTRIBUTOR. 

VERY early one spring morning, not quite thirty 
years ago, a tall boy, with arms almost too long for. 
his coat-sleeves, sat eating a hasty breakfast in a 
farm-house of Western New York. His hair was 
freshly combed, his shirt-collar clean, his fair face 
smoothly shaved (or perhaps the beard was yet 
to grow), and he appeared dressed for a journey. 

By the table, leaning her elbow upon it, sat a young 
girl, who did not eat, but watched him wistfully. 

"George," said she, with a tremulous smile, 
" you '11 forget me as soon as you are gone." 

George looked up, over his plate of fried potatoes, 
and saw her eyes — a bright blue, and smiling still 
— grow very misty indeed, and suddenly let fall a 
shining drop or two, like rain in sunshine. She 
caught up her apron, dashed away the tears with a 
laugh (she must either laugh or cry, and laughing 
was so much more sensible), and said, "I know 
you will, George ! " 

" Don't think that, Vinnie ? " said George, earn- 
estly. "You are the only person or thing on this 
old place that I don't wish to forget." 

" I am sorry you feel so, George ! " 

" I can't help it. I 've nothing against them, — 
only they don't understand me. Nobody under- 
stands me, or knows anything of what I think or 
feel." 

" Don't I — a little ? " smiled Vinnie. 

"You, more than anybody else. And, Vinnie !" 
exclaimed George, " I do hate to leave you here !" 

He gazed at her, thinking how good, how beauti- 
:"ul she was. On the table there was a candle still 
ourning with a pale flame. Just then a broad- 
chested, half-dressed farmer came in from another 
zoom, yawning, and buttoning his suspenders, saw 
:he candle, and put it out. 

"Needn't burn candles by daylight," he said, 
jinching the wick and then wiping his fingers on 
lis uncombed hair. 

George watched the broad back with the suspend- 
ers, knit of yellow yarn, crossed over a blue flannel 
ihirt, going out at the back door, and looked grimly 
.arcastic. 

" That's his way ; he don't mean anything ; he 's 
;ood-hearted behind it all," Vinnie explained. 
' Eat a doughnut." 

George declined the doughnut, and sat back in 
Vol. I. — 10. 



his chair. " I can't help laughing ! Nine years 
I 've lived with him, — my uncle, my mother's only 
brother ; — he sees me ready for a journey, my trunk 
packed ; and nobody knows, not even myself, just 
where I am going, or how I am going to live ; and 
his first words are, ' Need n't burn candles by day- 
light.' Candles!" repeated George, contempt- 
uously. 

The uncle walked a little way from the back 
door, stopped, hesitated, and then walked back 
again. A trunk was there, loaded up on an old 
wheelbarrow. 

"Ye might have had the horse and wagon, 
George, to take your trunk down," he said. 

"Uncle Presbit," George answered, with a full 
heart, " I 'm obliged to you ; but you did n't say so 
last night, when I spoke about it." 

That was too true. Uncle Presbit gazed rather 
uneasily at the trunk for a moment, then slowly re- 
volved on his axis, and the yellow X on the blue 
back moved off again. 

"I wish you would take my money!" Vinnie 




WESm** 




then said in a low tone of entreaty. "You will 
need it, I am sure." 

" I hope not," replied George. "I've enough 
to take me to Albany or New York, and keep me 
there a few days. I shall find something to do. I 
sha' n't starve. Never fear." 



154 



FAST FRIENDS. 



[Januar\ 



" But promise you '11 write to me for my money, 
if you need it. You know you will be welcome to 
it, — more than welcome, George ! " 

At that moment the uncle reappeared at the door. 
He was a plain, coarse man, with a rather hard but 
honest face, and he looked not unkindly on George. 

" When ye spoke last night," he said, " I hoped 
ye 'd reconsider. 'T ain't too late to change yer . 
mind now, ye know. Had n't ye better stay ? 
Bird in the hand 's wuth two in the bush. It 's a 
dreffle onsartin thing, this goin' off to a city where 
nobody knows ye nor cares for ye, to seek yer 
fortin." 

" It 's uncertain, I know," replied George, with 
a resolute air ; " but I 've made up my mind." 

"Wall boys know more 'n their elders nowdays." 
And once more the uncle walked heavily and 
thoughtfully away, scratching his rough head. 

" George," whispered Vinnie, " if you print any- 
thing in the city papers, be sure to send me a copy." 

" Of course," — blushing and stammering a little, 
—"if I do." 

She had touched a sensitive chord in the boy's 
heart, which thrilled with I know not what secret 
aspirations. For George was a poet, — or dreamed 
he was. In the heart of that farm-bred, verdant 
youth lurked a romantic hope, shy as any delicate 
wild flower shrinking from the glare of day under 
the shade of some secluded rock. He would hardly 
have owned, even to himself, that it was there. To 
be a poet — to write what the world would delight 
to read — to become famous, like Byron, Burns, or 
Scott, whom he so passionately admired — O no ! 
he would have declared, he was not so foolish as to 
indulge that daring thought. 

And yet he had tried his powers. He had com- 
posed a great many rhymes while following the 
plough or hoeing his uncle's corn, and had written 
a few prose sketches. Some of these things had 
got into print, and given him a good deal of reputa- 
tion as a ''young contributor" to the county news- 
paper. The editor had more than once called at- 
tention to the " new poem by our promising young 
author, G. G." (for George Greenwood favored the 
public with his initials only), comparing him with 
Pope in his early years, or with Chatterton, "the 
marvelous boy." George was rather ashamed of 
these compliments, which he greatly feared laid 
him open to ridicule. He suspected, moreover, 
perhaps justly, that they were intended as a sort of 
compensation for his articles; for he got no other 
pay. Besides, he had a painful consciousness that 
the "Vanguard of Freedom" was not literature, 
and that its columns were not the place where lau- 
rels were to be won. 

His friends and mates, for the most part, took no 
interest in his verses. Some accused him of ' ' copy- 



ing out of Lord Byron." Two or three only — in 
eluding Vinnie — believed in him. His Uncle Pres 
bit owned that " the boy had a knack at rhymin',' 
and was rather proud of it ; — no one of his blooc 
had ever before written anything which an edito: 
had thought "wuth printin' in a paper." Bu 
though he did not object to a little of such nonsensi 
now and then, hard work on the farm was the busi 
ness of life with him, and he meant it should be sc 
with his nephew, as long as they lived together 
And hard enough he made it — hard, dry and pro 
saic — to George, with his sensitive nature and po- 
etic dreams. And so it happened that George 
trunk was out there on the wheelbarrow, packec 
with all his earthly possessions (including a thicl 
roll of manuscripts), and that he was eating in haste 
the breakfast which Vinnie had got for him, early 
that spring morning. 

"I was agoin' to say," remarked Uncle Presbit. 
again coming back to the door, " I don't mind 
payin' ye wages, if ye stay an' work for me thi: 
season." 

"Thank you for the offer, — though it comes; 
rather late ! " said George, gloomily. " Good by. 
Aunt Presbit ; you 're just in time to see me off." 

The aunt came in, with pins in her mouth, ar- 
ranging her dress. 

" Goin' ? Have ye had a good breakfast ? " she 
said, speaking out of the corner of her mouth that 
was free from pins. 

"Yes, thanks to Vinnie," said George, risen, and 
ready to start. 

" That means, no thanks to me. Wal, George ! " 
— the pins were out of the mouth, which smiled in 
a large, coarse, good-natured way, — "I mean bet- 
ter by ye 'n ye think ; the trouble is, ye 've got too 
fine notions for plain folks like us. All is, if ye git 
into trouble, jest come back here ; then mabby 
ye '11 find who yer re'l friends be." 

George was touched by this, and there was a tear 
in his eye as he shook her hand at parting. 

"But law!" she added, with broad irony, "if 
ever ye do come back, I s'pose ye '11 be a rich man, 
and too proud to speak to poor folks ! Why don't 
ye kiss him, Vinnie ? Need n't mind me ! " 

" She is going over to the bridge with me." 
And George took up the handles of the wheelbarrow 
on which his trunk was placed. 

Uncle Presbit, who had walked to and fro half a 
dozen times since he last appeared at the door, I 
now came back and spoke what was on his mind, 

"George," — a cough, — "I s'pose," — another I 
cough, — Uncle Presbit pulled off his old farm hat 
with one hand, and scratched his head with the 
other, — " no doubt ye think I might 'a' gin ye some 
money — " 

" Uncle Presbit," said George, putting down the 



f 



1874.] 



FAST FRIENDS. 



155 



wheelbarrow, " if the work I've done for you the 
past nine years has paid for my board and clothes 
and schooling," — his voice trembled a little, — " I 'm 
glad — and I 'm satisfied. If you had offered me 
money, I — I " — chokingly — " should have taken it 
as a kindness ; but I have n't expected it, and I 
don't know that I have deserved it." 

Uncle Presbit had put his hand into his pocket, 
but he now took it out again, and appeared greatly 
relieved. 

" Wal ! I d' n' know, George ! I 've meant to 
io right by ye. An' I wish ye well, I shall allers 
wish ye well, George. Good by." 

" Good by," said George. He repressed a bitter 
nob ; and, with his hat pulled over his eyes, taking 
up the barrow again, he wheeled it away, while 
Minnie walked sadly by his side. 

Chapter II. 

TAKING THE PACKET BOAT. 

Notwithstanding the distasteful life he had 
ed at his uncle's, George did not leave the old 
ilace without some parting sighs. Strangely min- 
ted with his hatred of such disagreeable work as 
arking manure and picking up stones, and of his 
incle's sordid ways, remained a genuine love of 
lature, and attachment to many a favorite spot, 
'low could he forget the orchard, so pleasant in 
ummer weather ; the great woods where he had 
oamed and dreamed ; the swallow-haunted and 
ay-scented barn ; the door-yard, where on Sunday 
fternoons he had lain upon the grass and gazed up 
ito the sky, with thoughts of time, and space, and 
"iod; and all the private paths and nooks which 
" r innie and he had known together. 

" I take back what I said about wishing to forget 

1 verybody and everything but you, Vinnie ! " he 
lid, setting down his load at a little distance from 
ie house, and looking back. " Shall I ever see 
''gain that old roof — those trees — this road I have 

•aveled so many times with you on our way to 
;:hool?" 
" I hope so, George ! " said Vinnie, fervently. 
" Where shall I be a year from now? — three — 
ve — ten years?" he continued, as if speaking 
-oud the thoughts which had been haunting him. 
'] I wonder if this is n't all a dream, Vinnie ! " 

' I should think the wheelbarrow would seem 
hal enough to you," she said with a tearful smile, 
-i he took up his load again. 

' Yes ! and isn't this a rather ridiculous way of 
'aving home?" George blushed as he thought 
! ow it would sound, in the fine Byronic "Fare- 
tell" he was composing, or in the biography which 
: ight some day be written : " On that occasion he 
mveyed his own luggage to the boat, using for 



the purpose an ancient wheelbarrow belonging to 
his uncle." It was long before George got that 
little streak of romantic vanity rubbed out of him 
by rude contact with the world. 

The road soon brought them to the bridge ; and 
under the bridge flowed (for there was always a 
sluggish current) the waters of the canal, on which 
he was to embark. He saw the rising sun under 
the bridge, as he set down the wheelbarrow by the 
tow-path, and removed the trunk. Vinnie was to 
take the " little vehicle " (so it was called in the 
"Farewell") back with her, after they had parted. 

"I've jumped off from that bridge, on to the 
boats passing under, more times than I ever shall 
again, Vinnie ! " He remembered the way in 
which the little sum of money in his pocket had 
been earned, and wondered how that would read 
in his biography : " He had diligently picked up a 
few pennies at odd spells, by gathering in his 
uncle's orchard such fruits as it chanced to afford, 
and selling them on the canal-boats, upon which 
he stepped from a convenient bridge." Such 
things would dart through the lad's too active 
brain even at that moment of parting. 

They sat down, she on the trunk and he on the 
wheelbarrow, and talked a little ; though their 
hearts were so full, neither had much to say. 
George cast anxious glances up the canal; sud- 
denly he exclaimed, in a quick voice, "There's 
the packet ! " and clasped her hand. It was the 
boat that was to bear him away. The foremost of 
the three heavily trotting horses, and the head of 
the driver riding the last, appeared around the 
bend ; then came the long, curving tow-line, and 
the trim, narrow prow cutting the water. George, 
who had many times leaped upon the same boat 
at that place, with his little basket of apples (it was 
only upon the line-boats that he stepped from the 
bridge), sprang up and gave a signal. The driver 
— who knew him, and remembered many a fine 
pippin, handed up to him as he rode past, with 
the request, "Drive slow!" — slackened speed, 
letting the tow-line dip and trail in the water. 
The steersman, who also knew George, saw the 
signal and the trunk, and headed the packet for 
the tow-path. As it was " laying-up " for him, 
George hastily bid Vinnie good-bye; then, as the 
stern swung in and rubbed gratingly against the 
bank, he caught up his trunk, threw it aboard, and 
then leaped after it. The stern swung off again, 
the driver cracked his whip, the dripping line 
straightened, and a swiftly widening space of dingy 
water separated George standing in the stern from 
Vinnie on the shore. 

There was something romantic, after all, in his 
departure, sailing into the sunrise, which dazzled 
her as she gazed after him under her uplifted arm. 



156 



FAST FRIENDS 



[January, I 



He stood proudly erect, waving his hat towards 
her; she fluttered her handkerchief ; then another 
bend shut him out from her view. 

Poor Vinnie, standing alone on the tow-path, 
with the empty wheelbarrow, continued to gaze 
after him long after he was out of sight. A dread- 
ful feeling of loss and desolation came over her, 






would seem without him ! how could she endure J 
it ? But Vinnie was too brave a girl to spend much 
time in mourning over the separation. 

" J must go home and get breakfast for the rest," 
she suddenly remembered. So, drying her eyes, 
she took up the wheelbarrow, and trundled it back 
along the road. 




HE WAVED HIS HAT j SHE FLUTTERED HER HANDKERCHIEF. 



and the tears streamed unheeded down her cheeks. 
For nine years — ever since, his parents having 
died, he came to live with his uncle — they had 
been daily companions. She too was an orphan, 
adopted in childhood by the Presbits, who had no 
children of their own ; and the two had grown up 
together like brother and sister. How empty life 



George felt the separation less; for he had the 
novelty of the journey and his own fresh hopes to 
divert and console him. It was early in the month 
of May ; the morning was cool and fine. The sun 
rose through crimson bars of cloud into a sky of 
transparent silver. Birds sang sweetly in the 
budding boughs that overhung the water ; the lisp 



i 



■8 7 4-] 



FAST FRIENDS. 



157 



of ripples by the rushing prow blended with their 
songs. The steady, level movement of the boat, 
bearing him away to new scenes and new fortunes, 
inspired him with emotions akin to happiness. 
A.nd he had his poem for a companion. His brain 
began to beat with rhymes. 

"When the beams of morning fell 
On my little vehicle, 
Which bv dewy hedge-rows bore 
My light luggage to the shore, 
She, still faithful, by my side, 
Rosy-cheeked, and tender-eyed, — " 

But George immediately rejected the epithet 
'•' rosy-cheeked," as out of keeping with the pathos 
of the parting scene and the passionate tone of the 
'•' Farewell." Indeed, none of the lines composed 
:hat morning were finally retained in that remark- 
able poem, which was pitched to the deep key of 
:he surging winds in the dark woods, where he had 
lursed his fate-defying thoughts (after his trunk 
was packed) the night before. 

Chapter III. 

THE "OTHER BOY." 

FINDING that the stream of poetry ran shallow, 
George looked about among the passengers who 
vere beginning to come on deck, and noticed a 
monstrously fat man whose bulk nearly filled the 
;ompanion-way where he stood. 

" Half a dozen of us little fellows will have to go 
brward, to trim the boat, if he stays aft," said a 
joyish voice at George's side. 

The speaker was a lad almost ahead shorter than 
limself, and may be a year or two younger, but 
vith a bright, honest face, which expressed a good 
leal of quiet self-reliance and firmness of character. 
George, who had seen little of the world, and who 
acked self-reliance, felt drawn at once to the 
>wner of that face. 

Perceiving that he wore pretty good clothes, 
tnd a coat which was not a bad fit, our young poet 
— who was troubled with a painful consciousness of 
laving outgrown his own garments — instinctively 
oulled down his coat-sleeves, which, as has been 
said, were short. 

" He 'd better not come up on deck," he replied 
n the same tone of pleasantry. " He 'd go through 
i:hese thin boards like an elephant ! " 

The lad — whom we shall call the Other Boy — 
'jegan to laugh. "Once when I was on the canal, 
le said, "I saw just such a fat man on the deck of 
1 line-boat, as it was coming to a bridge. ' Low 



Dridge ! ' says the steersman. It was a low bridge 



ji 

very low; and the boat, having no freight, was 
•/•ery high out of the water. The fat man got down 



and lay on his back, with his feet towards the bow. 
But, gracious ! he reached almost as far up into 
the sky when he was lying down as when he stood 
up. He saw the bridge coming, in a direction 
that was certain to cut him off about six inches 
below his waistcoat buttons. I was on the tow- 
path; and I screamed, 'Mister! mister! you'll 
get killed ! ' He knew it, but what could he do? 
The boat couldn't stop, and the bridge wouldn't 
go ! In a minute he would be crushed like a four- 
hundred-pound egg." 

" What did he do ? " said George. 

"There was only one thing he could do; for it 
was too late to get up and run aft, and he could n't 
crawl away. He put up his feet ! I suppose he 
thought he was going to stop the boat, or may be 
push the bridge over. But the bridge pushed him! 
It was funny to see his eyes stick out, and hear 
him roar, ' Hold on ! wait ! stop 'em ! ' — I suppose 
he meant the horses, — as he slid along on the deck, 
and finally rolled off into the water. He went in 
like a whale, — such a splash ! He was so fat he 
could n't sink ; but how he did splutter and blow 
canal water when he came out ! " 

The Other Boy had hardly finished his story, 
when — " Bridge ! " — called the man at the helm ; 
and both boys, laughing heartily, got down 011 
the deck, with the other passengers, to pass 
under. 

George's new acquaintance appeared to be famil- 
iar with life on the canal, and had several such 
stories to tell. George in his turn became con- 
fidential. 

" I used to peddle apples on the ' big ditch,' as 
we call it." he said, as they sat on some light bag- 
gage on the deck, and looked off at the passing 
scenery. "They were my uncle's apples, and I 
gave him half I got for them. That made him 
willing to let me have the fruit, and a half-day to 
myself now and then. I would drop on to the line- 
boats from the bridge, and — if the steersman 
would n't lay up for me — get off at the next bridge, 
or on another boat. I was a little chap when I 
began, — very timid, — and it was some time before 
I completely mastered the art of getting on and 
off. You see, it don't do to jump down on the side 
from which the boat is coming, for the bridge 
might knock you over before you could take care 
of yourself. So you look for a good place, where 
there's no freight or passengers, and then run to 
the other side, and wait till the spot you've picked 
out comes through, and then drop down, and 
you're all right." 

"Yes, I see," said the Other Boy. 

" Once I dropped down in such a hurry that I 
left my basket of apples on the bridge ! I got well 
laughed at; and, what was worse," said George, 



158 



FAST FRIENDS. 



Uanuah 



"when I went back; half an hour later, — for the stomach of a big Dutchman lying on the dec! 

steersman would n't lay up, since I could n't give smoking his pipe. He started up with a gruntin! 

him an apple, and I had to jump to the first boat ' Hough! hough ! ' — very much as if it had been 

we met, — the pigs had eaten up all my apples, ex- fat hog I had jumped on, — and away went I ah 




GEORGE S LITTLE ADVENTURE. 



cept a few which I found afloat with the basket in 
the canal. Another time I put my basket up on a 
bridge, but could n't get up myself. I thought I 
could, though, and I hung on, jumping and kick- 
ing in the air, while the boat passed from under 
me, and there I clung, right over the water. The 
boatmen only laughed at me. There was nobody 
to pull me up, — yelling did no good, — and I 
could n't very well hold on till another boat came 
along, with a good deck for me to fall on." 

"What did you do?" asked the Other Boy, 
highly amused. 

" I dropped into the water. Luckily I could 
swim, and I got out without assistance. The boat- 
men laughed louder than ever, when they saw me, 
and that hurt my feelings." 

" Just like 'em ! they 're pretty rough fellows, 
the most of 'em ! " said the Other Boy, with the 
air of one who knew. 

"On one boat," George continued, " I met 
with a series of accidents. In the first place, get- 
ting on, I was a moment late, and, instead of 
alighting where I expected, I jumped into the 



my apples. First I picked myself up, and then 
proceeded to pick up as many of my apples as 
had n't rolled overboard. Afterwards I gave all I 
saved, together with all my money, for a bill that 
turned out to be counterfeit. Then the steersman 
carried me off. Then, in getting up on a bridge, 
— you have to step along on the deck, you know, 
till you can give a good jump, and you can't see 
where you step, — I kicked a dinner-bell off into 
the water. The cook sprang to catch me by the 
legs, and came very near going overboard after his 
bell. I was too quick for him ; but I was no 
sooner on the bridge than a shower of turnips fol- 
lowed me. I think the enraged cook, the steers- 
man, and the deck hands, must have thrown away 
half a barrel of turnips, all on my account. They 
went under the bridge, and over the bridge, and 
hit the bridge, but not one hit the mark they were 
aimed at, if I except a few lively spatters of juice 
and mashed pulp from one or two that struck the 
timbers disagreeably near to my head. As soon as 
I was at a good dodging distance, I yelled to the 
steersman that he'd better lay up for me next 



«74-l 



FAST FRIENDS. 



159 



ime. But I was careful never to get on that boat 
-igain." 

The Other Boy showed a lively appreciation of 
hese anecdotes. " Are you a pretty good hand at 
jetting into scrapes?" he inquired, with a laugh, 
ooking up into George's face. 

"Fair," replied George. "Are you?" 

" Terrible ! " said the Other Boy. " You never 
law such a fellow. If you are like me, we 'd better 
lot be together much, or nobody knows what may 
lappen. Two Jonahs in one boat ! " 

" But do you get out of your scrapes?" asked 
George. 

" O yes ! that '5 the fun of it." 

" Then I '11 risk you. But how happens it that 
rou know so much about the canal?" 

" I was brought up on it," said the Other Boy. 

" You mean near it — on its banks ? " 

"No; on the canal itself," — with a quiet smile. 
'You see, I was a driver once." 

George was astonished. "You! I wouldn't 
lave thought it ! " 

" It seems odd to me now," said the Other Boy, 
ooking thoughtful for a moment. " I can hardly 
>elieve that, only two years ago, I was traveling 
his very tow-path, one of the roughest little drivers 
fou ever saw ! " 

" You must have had a streak of luck ! " George 
:uggested regarding his new acquaintance with 
■resh interest. 

" I 've had some good friends ! " said the Other 
3oy. 

" How far are you going ? " 

"To New York." 
I George started, and drew still nearer the Other 
;3oy. " To stay ? " 

"I don't know. I am going on a strange 
r ort of business ; I mean to stay till I've finished 
hat." 

"/am going to New York," then said George. 

"Good!" exclaimed the Other Boy. "Let's 
jo there together." 

Chapter IV. 

THE JOURNEY AND AN ADVENTURE. 

THAT afternoon they arrived at Syracuse, where 
hey changed boats, taking another packet for 
Jtica. They slept on board that night, in little 
jerths made up against the sides of the narrow 
:abin, much like the berths in a modern sleeping- 
:ar. Changing boats again the next day at Utica, 
hey continued their journey, passing through the 
►lohawk Valley, and found themselves in Schenec- 
ady on the following morning. 

This was the end of the packet's route ; and 
tere, after breakfast, they took the cars for Troy 



and Albany, over one of the oldest railroads in the 
country. It was a new experience to the two 
boys, neither of whom had ever ridden in a 
railroad car before. This, we must remem- 
ber, was nearly thirty years ago ; since which 
time passenger-boats, once so common on the 
canal, have disappeared, and become almost 
forgotten. 

At noon they arrived at Albany ; and there 
George wished to spend a couple of days, while 
the Other Boy, who had seen enough of the city 
when he was a driver, and whose business seemed 
urgent, was for taking a steamer down the Hudson 
that night. Finally George agreed that, if his 
new friend would stay with him in Albany until 
the next morning, he would then take the steamer 
with him, and they would go down the river by 
daylight. 

They saw the city that afternoon, — the Other 
Boy acting as guide, — slept at a cheap public 
house, and got up early the next morning in order 
to take the boat. 

There were two lines of New York steamers at 
that time, "running opposition;" and when the 
boys reached the wharf they were beset by runners 
for the rival lines, who caught hold of them, jab- 
bering, and dragging them this way and that, in a 
manner which quite confused George, until he 
saw how cool and self-possessed the Other Boy 
was. 

"See here!" cried the latter, sharply, "just 
keep your hands off! Let go that trunk, I say !" 
It was George's trunk; his friend had only a valise. 
" Now, what will you take us for ? " 

" Regular fare, dollar and a half," said one ; 
" take ye for a dollar." 

" Go on our boat for seventy-five cents ! " 
shouted the other. 

•' Half a dollar ! " roared the first. 

" A quarter! " shrieked the second. 

" All right," said the Other Boy. " We can't 
do better than that; — although," he added after- 
wards, "if we had kept the two fellows bidding 
against each other a little longer, no doubt one 
of em would have given us something for going in 
his boat ! " 

They had got their baggage safely aboard, and 
were standing near the gangway, amid a group of 
passengers, when somebody said, "What's the 
matter with that man ? " George turned, and 
saw a well-dressed person staggering towards 
them, holding one hand to his head, and 
reaching out convulsively with the other, on which 
(he remembered afterwards) glittered a diamond 
ring. 

" Take me ! " gasped the man. " I shall fall ! " 

While George, struck with astonishment, hesi- 



i6o 



FAST FRIENDS. 



[jAXUAK.j 



tated a moment, n6t for want of humanity, but 
because he lacked decision, the Other Boy sprang 
promptly to support the stranger. 

"Help ! " said he. " I can't hold him ! " And 
in an instant George was at the stranger's other 
side. The man reeled about frightfully, and 
finally leaned his whole weight upon the boys, his 
body swaying, and his arms clutching their sides. 
At the same time two other gentlemen crowded 
close to them, crying, "What ails him ? " 

"I don't know,'' said the Other Boy. " Ease 
him down on the trunks here." 

" No, no ! " gasped out the suffering gentleman. 
" Take me ashore ! I'm not going in the boat. I 
shall be all right." 

As he appeared to recover himself a little, de- 
claring presently that his faintness had passed, and 
that he could walk, the two boys helped him to 
the wharf, where he thanked them warmly for 
their kindness. They left him leaning against 
a cab, and had just time to leap aboard again 
when the bridge was hauled in, the great paddles 
began to revolve, and the boat started. 

'• He's all right," cried the Other Boy, with 
satisfaction. "Just think, he might have got 



carried off ! Now, where's the man who promise 
to get us our tickets ? " 

" See here ! " said George, feeling in his pocket] 
" pay for mine when you get yours, will you? 
For George shrank from the responsibility of push 
ing into the crowd and making change. 

"All right," said the Other Boy. " What's th 
matter with you ? " 

George stood, a picture of consternation, feelinc 
first in one pocket, then in another, then in both, 

" My pocket-book ! " he said hoarsely. 

The Other Boy comprehended the situation ai 
once, and, thrusting his hands into his own pock- 
ets, became another picture of consternation, tc 
match his friend. 

" My purse ! That rascal ! " he cried, springing 
to the gangway. 

He looked for the sick man leaning by the cab. 
He had disappeared. The steamer was already 
forty yards from the wharf. And there were our 
two youthful adventurers, embarked for the great 
unknown city in a crowd of passengers among 
whom they had not a friend, and without money- 
enough about them to pay their fares even at 
" opposition " rates. 



(To be continued.) 



A CARD FROM THE EDITOR OF "OUR YOUNG FOLKS." 



Through the courtesy of the Conductor of St. 
Nicholas, I am enabled to say a few words to the 
readers of" Our Young Folks," in place of the many I 
should have wished to say in the last number of that 
lamented magazine, had it been known to be the last 
when it left the editorial hands. 

That number was sent to its readers in the full faith 
that all it promised them for the coming year was to be 
more than fulfilled. But it had scarcely gone forth, 
when came the sudden change by which " Our Young 
Folks " ceased to exist — the result of a purely com- 
mercial transaction, wholly justifiable, I think, on the 
part of the publishers, J. R. Osgood and Company, of 
whose honorable and liberal conduct in all that related 
to the little magazine, up to the very last, I can speak 
with the better grace now that my editorial connection 
with their house has ceased. 

Dear friends of "Our Young Folks," that I do not 
mourn the loss of our little favorite I will not pretend. 
Connected with it from its very birth nine years ago, and 
very intimately during the last three or four years, my in- 
terest in it had grown to be something more than that of 
a mere writer or editor — it filled a large place in my heart. 
I had been so long accustomed to regard its youthful 



readers and correspondents as my personal friends, 
that I cannot now sever the special ties that joined 
me to them without a sense of personal bereavement. 

But, dear friends, changes — though they often appear 
disguised as foes — are, if not blessings themselves, the | 
parents of blessings and of all improvement. Although 
" Our Young Folks " was the pioneer of the better class 
of juvenile periodicals, there were many things about it 
which we would gladly have made different, could we 
have gone back, with our acquired experience, and pro- 
jected its form and character anew. But it filled its 
place, and it is gone ; and we believe that from its grave 
"violets will spring," to blossom amid the leaves of a , 
more beautiful and more beloved successor. Such a 
successor St. Nicholas promises to be. I sincerely 
trust that it may crown that promise with fulfillment, 
and so prove to the friends of " Our Young Folks " 
that their loss is but gain. 

The serial story, prepared for the late magazine, is here- 
with transferred to St. Nicholas; and through the con- 
tinuation of the history of Jack Hazard's adventures I shall 
hope still to maintain a pleasant relation with former 
readers, keeping them Fast Friends for another year. 

J. T. Trowbridge. 



Not only the thousands of boys and girls who have grown to love the editor of "Our Young Folks," but hosts of others familiar with 
Mr. Trowbridge's writings, wilt rejoice to know that again, and for many a month, they may cluster about their old friend, to hear the 
stoiy he is to tell in St. Nicholas. 

And so, though the much-loved magazine has passed away, our young folks will claim him still, and the claim, we trust, will grow 
stronger and heartier as the years roll on. Conductor of St. Nicholas. 



N I M P O S TROUBLES. 



161 



NIMPO'S TROUBLES. 



By Olive Thorne. 



Chapter I. 

GOING OUT TO BOARD. 

This is the story of a real girl, no wiser and no 
better than you are. I hope you'll like her ; and 
I'm sure you'll be interested to hear about her 
•.roubles. They were many and grievous, but the 




NIMPO THINKS OVER HER TROUBLES. 

ijreatest of all was, that she could not do as she 
'•leased. 

Now, I wouldn't be surprised if that were your 
pecial trouble too ; and I'm going to tell you what 
limpo did about it. 

Nimpo wasn't her real name, of course ; it was 
me she had given herself before she could speak 
lainly, and she never had been able to get rid of it. 
She had a habit of talking to herself, and the day 
iy story begins, she had locked herself in her 
}om, and was going on in a most passionate 
•ay: 

" I don't believe anybody has such a hard time 
3 I have ! I never can do as I please ! Here I 
m, 'most thirteen, and I never did as I had a mind 
) a single day ! I just think it's too bad ! 
Vol. I.— ii. 



" Mother never lets me go anywhere I want to, — 
at least, not unless every little thing is just so," she 
added, to qualify the rather surprising remark. 

" I think she's horrid particular, anyway. Then 
she never lets me wear my new dress ! I don't see 
any use of having a dress if you can't wear it, except 
just to church. Oh. dear ! I do wish I could do as 
I please ! Wouldn't I have a nice time ? " 

Having talked out her grief, though only to 
the unsympathizing walls, Nimpo felt better, 
and began to plan what she would do if that 
nice time should ever come. Her face bright- 
ened, and before long she was so deep in cas- 
tle-building that she forgot her troubles, and 
when the tea bell rang she went pleasantly down 
stairs, not a bit like the abused damsel she 
thought herself. 

Perhaps it was because "coming events cast 
their shadows before," for her nice time was 
much nearer than she thought. They were 
all at the table, when she took her place, and 
holding an animated discussion. 

"Nimpo," said her father, "I'm going to 
take your mother with me to New York next 
week. How shall you like to keep house?" 

"Are you— is he, mother?" exclaimed Nim- 
po, " and can I keep house? " 

" I'm thinking about it," replied Mrs. Rie- 
vor, " but I don't see exactly how to arrange it. 
Sarah wants to go home for a month, or I could 
leave you with her. Perhaps I can get Mrs. 
Jackson to come and take care of you all. " 

" Oh, no ! I can't bear Mrs. Jackson," Nimpo 
broke in ; " can't I board somewhere ? " 

"That might do, Mary," said Mr. Rievor. 
" Perhaps that would be best. You would feel 
easier about them." 

" I don't know who would take the care of three 
children on their hands," said Mrs. Rievor. 

"Children ! " said Nimpo, "I should think I was 
old enough to take care of myself." 

Mrs. Rievor looked curiously at Nimpo, a mo- 
ment, and a light seemed to break in on her mind. 
She thought, perhaps, it would be well for her little 
daughter to take care of herself awhile. So she said 
she would think of it. 

Well, she did think of it ; and she went out the 
next morning to see about it, and when Nimpo 
came home from school she was greeted with a 
shout from Rush, who was swinging on the front 
gate. 



l62 



NI5IPO S TROUBLES. 



'• Oh, Nimpo ! It's all settled, and we're going 
to Mrs. Primkins' to board. Ain't you glad ? " 

" I guess you'll have to learn better manners than 
to swing on a gate, if you're going to board out," 
said Nimpo, with great dignity. ''I should be 
mortified to have Mrs. Primkins see such rude man- 
ners ; " and she went into the house to see if the 
delightful news was really true. 

" Oh, my ! don't we feel grand ! " shouted Rush, 
who was just at the teazing age in boys — if you 
know what age that is. According to my experi- 
ence, it begins at nine or ten years of age, and ends 
— when does it end, boys ? 

But, for once, Nimpo did not care what he said. 
She was too much elated with her brilliant prospects 
to listen to him. 

" Mother, have you got us aboarding place?" she 
asked, eagerly. 

Mrs. Rievor smiled. 

"Yes, dear; at least, Mrs. Primkins says she 
will take you, if, on the whole, it is decided to be 
best." 

"Oh, I hope it will, mother! I don't want to 
stay here with that poky old Mrs. Jackson, to order 
me around." 

" But you will find things very different there 
from what you are used to, my dear, and I'm afraid 
you'll be disappointed." 

"Of course, things '11 be different," said Nimpo, 
loftily, "but I think I'd like a change. I don't 
think it's good for folks to live always in a rut." 
She had read that expression in a grown-up book, 
and thought it sounded striking. 

But, seeing a peculiar smile on her mother's 
face, she went on earnestly — 

"I always did want to board out, mother, and I 
think it '11 be just splendid." 

"Well," said Mrs. Rievor, "perhaps it will be 
good for you, and if you prefer, you may try it. " 

So that was settled, and Nimpo thought her day 
of glory was coming in. 

She went at once to her room, drew her trunk 
out of the closet, and began to look over her 
" things," to see which she would take. It was de- 
lightful to select them, and pack them away in 
boxes, and it made her feel as if she were going on 
a journey. 

Rush was excited, too, though of course — being a 
boy — he would not own it. Pretty soon he came in. 

"What 'r you doing, Nimp?" he asked. 

"Packing up," said Nimpo, from the closet, 
where she had gone to get her best shoes, so as to 
be sure and not forget them. 

" Then we're to go, sure pop? " 

"Yes, we're to go to Mrs. Primkins' to board, 
but I do wish you'd leave off such vulgar words," 
answered Nimpo. 



said he, prudently, 
: ' Nimp, would yot 



" I mean to pack up, too 
not hearing her last remark, 
take your skates?" 

" Skates ! — in the middle of summer ! " said sh<_ 
scornfully. "I think you'd better take a link 
common sense — if you've got any in your head, 
wish you'd go out; you're in my way. I want tc 
spread out my things on that bed." 

Nimpo's room was a cozy bit of a place, with 
only room for a narrow bed, a little bureau 
stand, and one chair. So when Rush came in to! 
see her, he always sat or lounged on the bed. 

Before she went to sleep on that wonderful 
night, Nimpo had packed everything, except her 
dresses, and as it was a week before she went, she 
had to live in the trunk all that time. 

But that — though rather inconvenient — was part 
of the fun. 

She was a heroine at school for that week. The 
envy of the girls, and the happiest one of all. Les- 
sons were not very well learned, notes passed 
around, and in fact the whole school was demoral- 
ized by her influence, because she was going to 
"board out," that being considered the height of 
felicity among the school girls of the village 

The airs she put on were wonderful to see. She 
did up her hair in a very tight knot behind, feeling 
too old for braids, and slily let down a tuck in her 
dress. 

You see she wasn't a bit like the good girls you 
read about ; she was more like the girls you see — 
when you look in the glass. 

Well, the week came to an end, as all weeks 
will if we 're only patient, and the morning came 
on which Mr. and Mrs. Reivor were to start. 

"Now, Nimpo," said her mother that morning, 
"I leave little Robbie to your tender care. Re- 
member he's a baby, and will miss his mother. 
I'm sure you'll be kind to him, dear. And I want 
you to be more considerate with Rush. I know he 
is trying — " 

. "I should think he was! " broke in Nimpo. 

"Well, I know he is; but it's only' his rough 
way. Try to be patient with him. I want to 
speak to you of Mrs. Primkins, too. You'll find 
some things you're not used to, my dear, but I 
know she'll be kind to you, and I hope you will be 
respectful to her, and do as she wishes you to." 

"Of course I shall be respectful, mother," said 
Nimpo, putting on her high and mighty air, "but 
I don't see why I should mind her. I'm sure I'm 
old enough to know what's right for me to do. I 
shall only be a boarder, any way." . 

"Well, daughter," were Mrs. Rievor'slast words, 
"I hope you will be as happy as you expect." 

"There's the stage!" shouted Rush from the 
front gate ; and, sure enough, the old red stage. 






■rf?4- 1 



NIMPO S TROUBLES. 



16- 



-with its four white horses, came swinging around 
the corner, and stopped at the gate. 

In a moment the trunks were strapped in the big 
""boot" behind. Father and mother said good- 
hy, and were packed in, the driver climbed to his 
seat, cracked his whip, and off they went, leaving 
Nimpo, Rush and Robbie at the gate, and black 
Sarah at the door. 

Robbie began to cry, and even Rush felt a slight 
choke in his throat, but Nimpo was too much taken 
up with her brilliant prospect to feel unhappy. 

" Now, Robbie," she began, in her most elder- 
sisterly way, "don't cry, dear; we're going up to 
our boarding place, and you'll see what fine times 
we'll have ! " 

"Hadn't ye better stay here till arter dinner?" 
said Sarah. " I won't get done clarin up 'fore the 
arternoon, an' I kin jist as well cook y'r dinner." 

" No, I thank you, Sarah," said Nimpo, loftily, 
" I want to take possession of my new rooms this 
morning." 

Sarah smiled, but Rush shouted : 
" Nimp's on her stilts again ! I say, Nimp, 
don't forget to take the big dictionary up to old 
Primkins. They'll all have to study it if you keep 
on." 

Nimpo threw a most withering look on him, but 
he didn't wither a bit. He only laughed louder, 
iand Sarah said, quietly : 

" Law, now ! I reckon ye'll git off that ar high 
■hoss, 'fore you've been to Miss Primkins' a week. 
She ain't much like y'r ma, no ways." 
j Nimpo disdained reply. 

" You can leave the key of the house with cousin 
Will, at the store, Sarah," she said with dignity. 

"Yes, Miss Rievor," said Sarah, sarcastically. 
•'"So y'r ma tole me? Lor'! won't she git took 
.down a peg ! " she added, with a laugh to herself, 
i the next minute, as Nimpo disappeared through 
i the door. 

The trunks had been carried up the day before ; 
so nothing remained but to walk up there. 
ii Nimpo started off, leading Robbie, and Rush, 
[stopping to gather up a bow and arrow he was mak- 
ing, followed slowly along behind. 
I 

Chapter II. 

MRS. PRIMKINS. 

t Mrs. Primkins lived in a two-story house, a 
"block or two above Mr. Rievor's. It was the new- 
[est and most stylish-looking house on the street, 
and that was one reason Nimpo was pleased to go 
.there. 

Mrs. Primpkins, however, was not stylish in the 
: least. Her hair was cut short in her neck, her 
j dress was short and scant, and in. her whole figure 



there was a tightened up ready-for-action look, that 
meant work. In fact, she was a kind-hearted, un- 
educated woman, whose life was spent in her 
kitchen, and who knew very little out of it. 

She consented to take the children to board, be- 
cause she wanted money to furnish her half-empty 
rooms. 

When Nimpo reached the house, she went up to 
the front door, and finding no bell, gave a delicate, 
lady-like knock. 

No reply. 

She knocked again, louder this time. In a mo- 
ment she heard a window opened, and Augusta 
Primkins put her head out. 

" Go 'round the back way," she screamed. 

"Well, I never!" said Nimpo, tossing her head; 
but she went, and there she found Mrs. Primkins 
washing dishes. 

"Excuse me, Mrs. Primkins," she said. "I 
knocked at the front door, but could not make you 
hear." 

"Laws!" cried Mrs. Primkins, stopping to look 
at her. " Why did n't you come right around? 
I don't expect to make company of you ; " and she 
returned to her dish-pan. 

"Will you be kind enough to show me my 
rooms?" asked Nimpo, with her grandest, young 
lady-like air. 

Mrs. Primkins stopped now in earnest, stood a 
moment looking at the pompous young figure in 
the doorway, laughed a little to herself, wiped her 
hands on her apron, and then went to a door which 
seemed to lead up stairs. 

" Au-gus-tee ! " she screamed. 

" Ma'am," came faintly down from the attic. 

' ' Them Rievor children's come ; you show them 
their rooms." 

"Children, again!" thought poor Nimpo. "I'll 
soon show them I'm no child." 

"I s'pose you'd 's'lieves go up the back way?" 
said Mrs. Primkins, holding open the door. 

" It makes no difference," said Nimpo, haughti- 
ly, and up she went. 

When she got to the head of the stairs, she 
looked around for Augusta, but a voice came from 
above — 

" Come up stairs, children." 

Nimpo hesitated, and Mrs. Primkins called from 
below — 

"Take the little door at your left hand." 

Then Nimpo saw a narrow, unpainted door, 
which she opened. There was the next flight of 
stairs, regular garret stairs, narrow and steep. Up 
these she climbed, her heart boiling over with 
wrath. 

" It can't be possible ! " she said to herself, "that 
that horrid woman means to put us in the attic ! " 



NIMPO S TROUBLES. 



[January. 



But she did; for there stood Augusta at the head 
of the landing, and she pointed to two small, un- 
painted doors, on one side of the attic. 

"Those are your rooms. You can divide them 
as you like." 

" But I thought — but can't we have rooms down 
stairs ? " stammered Nimpo, with tears of vexation 
in her eyes. 

Augusta looked at her with surprise. 

"There ain't -a stick of furniture in the cham- 
bers. This is my room," and she opened the door 
of the front attic, showing a broad room, the whole 
width of the house, with a droll window half across 
the front. This window was in the peak of the roof, 
and, of course, it could not go up ; so it was ar- 
ranged with hinges, and hung down into the room. 
It was now open, and it looked as though half the 
wall was out. 

But Nimpo turned away from this room, and 
with a swelling heart, opened one of the other doors. 

The room was a small one, with sloping roof on 
one side. A bed was pushed under this low part, 
and before it stood a cheap stand and one wooden 
chair. A window at the end looked out upon a 
roof, and the kitchen chimney smoked away only 
five or six feet from the sash. 

There was an awful crash of air castles in Nimpo's 
heart. She turned tc look at the other room, but 
found it even worse ; for it had no wash-stand at 
all. She returned to the first room, drew Robbie 
in, shut the door, sat down on the foot of the bed, 
and — burst into tears. 

" Don't cry, Nimp," said Rush, by way of con- 
solation, while Robbie climbed up by her and said : 

" This room 's too high up ; that wall 's going to 
fall down." 

"It 's real mean, anyhow," Rush went on, "to 
put us up in the garret like this. It ain't half so 
good as our house, for all it looks so grand ! " 

"Mean!" said Nimpo, who had recovered her 
voice. "It's horrid! the stingy old thing! I'll 
bet she did n't tell mother where she was going to 
put us ! I '11 never stay here — never ! You see 
if I do." 

Poor Nimpo seated herself disconsolately on the 
side of the bed, half hoping to hear the jingle of the 
dinner-bell; but it did not come. Instead of that, 
the lower door opened, and a shrill scream came 
up: 

" Come to dinner, children ! " 

"Children, again!" said Nimpo. "I'll show 
her— " 

They found the dinner table in the kitchen, to 
Nimpo's horror. 

" You can set right down there," said Mrs. 
Primkins, pointing to a chair on one side 
of the table, " and Robbie can have the high 



chair next to you. You, Rush, can set down bjfl j 
Augusty." 

They took their seats. Mr. Primkins wasH 
already in his place. Nimpo tied on Robbie's bib, .. 
and looked around. I don't suppose she would really I 
have cared much how her dinner was served, if she 
had n't dreamed so much, and worse yet — said so 
much about the style of boarding. But the dishes 
of coarse crockery, with blue edges, such as they 
used at home to bake pies on, the big, awkward 
knives and two-tined forks, the unbleached table- 
cloth, the square table, with leaves propped up, so! 
that you had to be careful not to hit the leg, or you 
might have your dinner in your lap — all these to- 
gether were dreadful troubles just then. 

Then there was the great piece of corned beef, — 
which she never could eat, and whole potatoes, — 




DEAR ! DEAR ! WHAT AN APPETITE BOVS DO HAVE ! " 



which she hated to peel, and boiled cabbage, — 
which she could just manage to swallow. 

Mr. Primkins did not ask her what she would 
have. He piled a plate up with beef, potatoes, and 
cabbage, and handed it over to her in such a mat- 
ter of course way, that she could not say a word. 
He did the same with Rush. Rush was hungry, — 
did you ever know a boy who was n't ? — and he 
proceeded to dispose of his plateful; but Robbie 
began to fret. 



lS 7 4 ] 



BEING A BOY. 



I6s 



5 



"Nimpo, I don't want that meat. I want some 
fat meat. I don't like that potato— it's a black 
potato." 

"Never mind!" whispered Nimpo, blushing; 
"I '11 fix it." 

" Don't fix it ! — take away that meat ! " Robbie 
went on, ready to cry. 

Nimpo hastily slipped the meat upon her own 
plate, peeled Robbie's potato, and mashed it for 
him, gave him a piece of fat from her plate, and 
after a while, with burning cheeks, was ready to 
cram her own' dinner down. 

Meantime, Rush had emptied his plate, and pass- 
ed it up for more, at which Mrs. Primkins, who was 
nibbling around the edge of hers, said . 

"Dear ! dear ! what an appetite boys do have ! " 
— adding, as she saw Nimpo's indignant face : 

" What would n't I give if I could eat like a 
boy ! " 



" Let him eat," was Mr. Primkins' remark, be- 
tween two mouthfuls, " he 's a-growin'." 

That was the only remark he made. As soon as 
he had finished, he pushed back his chair, took his 
hat and went out. Mrs. Primkins also left the 
table the moment she had finished, and, finally, 
Nimpo found herself left alone with Robbie, who 
was very slow to eat, lingering as little folks will. 

"Come, Bub, ain't you through?" said Mrs. 
Primkins. " I can't dawdle round all day. I want 
to get the dishes done up." 

Nimpo hurried him off, and rushed up stairs 
once more, in a blaze of indignation, while Mrs. 
Primkins said to herself, as she cleared the table — 

' ' Too many airs for my time o' day ! the pert 
little huzzy ! can't eat corned beef! humph ! I '11 
have to take her down a bit, 'fore I can live-with 
her," and by the way the table-cloth was jerked 
off, you'd think she meant to do it, too. 



( To be continued.) 



BEING A BOY. 



By Charles Dudley Warner. 



If I was obliged to be a boy, and a boy in the 
country — the best kind of boy to be, in the summer 
— I would be about ten years of age. As soon as I 
got any older, I would quit it. The trouble with a 
boy is that just as he begins to enjoy himself he is 
too old, and has to be set to doing something else. 
If a country boy were wise he would stay at just that 
age when he could enjoy himself most, and hav< 
the least expected of him in the way of work. 

Of course the perfectly good boy will always pre- 
fer to work and to do " chores" for his father and 
jrrands for his mother and sisters, rather than enjoy 
limself in his own way. I never saw but one such 
dov. He lived in the town of Goshen — not the 
3lace where the butter.is made, but a much better 
Goshen than that. And I never saw him, but I 
leard of him; and being about the same age, as I 
;upposed, I was taken once from Zoah, where I 
ived, to Goshen to see him. But he was dead. 
He had been dead almost a year, so that it was im- 
possible to see him. He died of the most singular 
lisease; it was from not eating green apples in the 
eason of them. This boy, whose name was Solo- 
non, before he died, would rather split up kindling- 
rood for his mother than go a-fishing — the conse- 
|uence was that he was kept at splitting kindling- 
rood and such work most of the time, and grew a 



better and more useful boy day by day. Solomon 
would not disobey his parents and eat green apples 
— not even when they were ripe enough to knock 
off with a stick — but he had such a longing for 
them, that he pined, and passed away. If 
he had eaten the green apples he would have died 
of them, probably; so that his example is a difficult 
one to follow. In fact, a boy is a hard subject to 
get a moral from, any way. All his little play- 
mates who ate green apples came to Solomon's 
funeral, and were very sorry for what they had 
done. 

John was a very different boy from Solomon, not 
half so good, nor half so dead. He was a farmer's 
boy, as Solomon was, but he did not take so much 
interest in the farm. If John could have had his 
way he would have discovered a cave full of dia- 
monds, and lots of nail-kegs full of gold pieces and 
Spanish dollars, with a pretty little girl living in the 
cave, and two beautifully caparisoned horses, upon 
which, taking the jewels and money, they would 
have ridden off together, he did not know where. 
John had got thus far in his studies, which were 
apparently arithmetic and geography, but were in re- 
ality the "Arabian Nights," and other books of high 
and mighty adventure. He was a simple country 
boy, and did not know much about the world as it 



1 66 



BEING A BOY. 



[January! 



is, but he had one of his own imagination, in which 
he lived a good deal. I dare say he found out soon 
enough what the world is, and he had a lesson or 
two when he was quite young, in two incidents, 
which I may as well relate. 

If you had seen John at this time you might have 
thought he was only a shabbily dressed country- 
lad, and you never would have guessed what beau- 
tiful thoughts he sometimes had as he went stub- 
bing his toes along the dusty road, nor what a 
chivalrous little fellow he was. Ycu would have 
seen a short boy, barefooted, with trowsers at once 
too big and too short, held up perhaps by one sus- 
pender only, a checked cotton shirt, and a hat of 
braided palmleaf, frayed at the edges and bulged 
up in the crown. It is impossible to keep a hat 
neat if you use it to catch bumble-bees and whisk 
'em ; to bail the water from a leaky boat ; to catch 
minnows in ; to put over honey-bees' nests, and to 
transport pebbles, strawberries, and hens' eggs. 
John usually carried a sling in his hand, or a bow, 
or a limber stick, sharp at one end, from which he 
could sling apples a great distance. If he walked 
in the road, he walked in the middle of it, scuffing 
up the dust; or if he went elsewhere, he was likely 
to be running on the top of the fence or the stone 
wall, and chasing chipmunks. 

John knew the best place to dig sweet-flag in all 
the farm ; it was in a meadow by the river, where 
the bobolinks sang so gaily. He never liked to 
hear the bobolink sing, however, for he said it 
always reminded him of the whetting of a scythe, 
and that reminded him of spreading hay ; and if 
there was anything he hated it was spreading hay 
after the mowers. " I guess you wouldn't like it 
yourself," said John, " with the stubbs getting into 
your feet, and the hot sun, and the men getting 
ahead of you, all you could do." 

Towards evening, once, John was coming along 
the road home with some stalks of the sweet-flag in 
his hand ; there is a succulent pith in the end 
of the stalk which is very good to eat, ten- 
der, and not so strong as the root ; and John 
liked to pull it, and carry home what he did not 
eat on the way. As he was walking along he met 
a carriage, which stopped opposite to him ; he also 
slopped and bowed, as country boys used to do in 
John's day. A lady leaned from the carriage, and 
said : 

"What have you got, little boy?" 

She seemed to be the most beautiful woman 
John had ever seen ; with light hair, dark, tender 
eyes, and the sweetest smile. There was that in 
her gracious mien and in her dress which reminded 
John of the beautiful castle ladies, with whom he 
was well acquainted in books. He felt that he 
knew her at once, and he also seemed to be a sort 



of young prince himself. I fancy he didn't look 
much like one. But of his own appearance het 
thought not at all, as he replied to the lady's quesJl 
tion, without the least embarrassment : 

" It's sweet-flag stalk ; would you like some ? " 
"Indeed, I should like to taste of it," said the 
lady with a most winning smile. "I used to be 
ever so fond of it when I was a little girl. " 

John was delighted that the lady should like! 
sweet-flag, and that she was pleased to accept it 
from him. He thought himself that it was about 
the best thing to eat he knew. He handed up a 
large bunch of it. The lady took two or three 
stalks, and was about to return the rest, when 
John said : 

"Please keep it all, ma'am. I can get lots 
more. I know where it's ever so thick. " 

" Thank you, thank you," said the lady ; and as 
the carriage started she reached out her hand to 
John. He did not understand the motion, until 
he saw a cent drop in the road at his feet. In- 
stantly all his illusion and his pleasure vanished. 
Something like tears were in his eyes as he- 
shouted : 

" I don't want your cent. I don't sell flag ! " 

John was intensely mortified. "I suppose," he 
said, "she thought I was a sort of beggar-boy. To 
think of selling flag ! " 

At any rate, he walked away and left the cent in 
the road, a humiliated boy. The next day he told 
Jim Gates about it. Jim said he was green not to 
take the money ; he'd go and look for it now, if he 
would tell him about where it dropped. And Jim 
did spend an hour poking about in the dirt, but he 
did not find the cent. Jim, however, had an idea; 
he said he was going to dig sweet-flag, and see if 
another carriage wouldn't come along. 

John's next rebuff and knowledge of the world 
was of another sort. He was again walking the 
road at twilight, when he was overtaken by a 
wagon with one seat, upon which were two pretty 
girls, and a young gentleman sat between them, 
driving. It was a merry party, and John could 
hear them laughing and singing as they approached 
him. The wagon stopped .when it overtook him, 
and one of the sweet-faced girls leaned from the 
seat and said, quite seriously and pleasantly : 

"Little boy, how's your mar?" 

John was surprised and puzzled for a moment. 
He had never seen the young lady, but he thought 
that she perhaps knew his mother; at any rate his. 
instinct of politeness made him say : 

" She's pretty well, I thank you." 

" Does she know you are out?" 

And thereupon all three in the wagon burst 
into a roar of laughter, and dashed on. 

It flashed upon John in a moment that he had 



l3 7 4-] 



JAPANESE GAMES. 



167 



u been imposed on, and it hurt him dreadfully. His 
L self-respect was injured somehow, and he felt as if 
.. his lovely, gentle mother had been insulted. He 

would like to have thrown a stone at the wagon, 

and in a rage, he cried : 



" You're a nice " — but he couldn't think of any 
hard, bitter words quick enough. 

Probably the young lady, who might have been 
almost any young lady, never knew what a cruel 
thing she had done. 



JAPANESE GAMES. 



By a Japanese Boy. 



[Here are three games that may be worth trying during 
the Christmas holidays. They are very popular in Japan ; 
and I trust American boys and girls will find some fun in 
them. — Ichy Zo Hattoki.] 



■ Hebi 



no o wo toro," or catching 
Snake's tail. 



Several players choose one, in any manner 
agreed upon, to be an "Oni," or catcher. Then 
all but the " Oni" stand in a row, one behind the 
other, each one's hand being placed on the shoulder 
of the player in the front of him or her. The tallest 
player generally stands at the head, and the short- 
est at the end ; or, in the language of the game, 
the " O," or tail of the row. 

The "Oni" stands, facing the head of the row, 
at the distance of about twenty feet from him. 

Now the play commences. 

The " Oni" tries to catch the " O," or the tail of 
the row, while the head of the row and row itself de- 
fend the "O." 

If the "Oni" pushes any one in the row, or the 
row is broken, it is foul. 

. When the " O " is caught, he or she takes the 
position of the "Oni," and the retiring "Oni" 
takes his or her place in the row, and they repeat 
the game. 

" Ko wo TORO." 

The " Ko wo toro " is the same as the "Catching 
Snake's tail" in the arrangement of row and choos- 
ing of a catcher. 

In " Ko wo toro," the head of the row is called 
" Oya" (father or mother), and the others, " Ko " 
(children). 

When they take their respective positions, the 
catcher calls out, " Ko wo toro, Ko toro" (will catch 
a child ! will catch a child!). The "Oya" asks 
then, " Dono Ko ga hoshiikaz?" (which child do 
you want?). To this the catcher answers, calling 
the first, second, third, or whichsoever he wants to 



catch, counting from the head toward the other end 
of the row. Then the "Oya" says, "Tore ruka 
totte miro " (try to catch if you can). 

This is the signal of the battle. 

The catcher pursues the one whom he named, 
and the column moves in all directions, and in any 
shape, to defend the " Ko." 

During the struggle, the " Oya " can stretch his 
hands to prevent the catcher's progress ; but he 
cannot push the catcher, nor can the catcher push 
any one in the column. 

If the column is broken, it is foul. 

When the catcher catches the one whom he aimed 
at, he changes his position, just as in the ' ' Hebi no 
O wo toro." 

"Temari," or Hand-Ball.- 

The " Temari" is a ball about two inches in diam- 
eter, and made generally of cotton, wound around 
with thread, so that it keeps its roundness and is 
elastic. Its outside is often ornamented with 
different figures, made of threads of various colors. 

A number of girls stand in a circle, and one of 
them — for example, Miss A. — takes the hand-ball, 
and throws it perpendicularly on the ground, and 
when it rebounds, she strikes it back toward the 
ground with her open hand. If it rebounds again 
toward her she continues in the same manner as 
before. But if it flies away, the one toward whom the 
ball flies, or who is the nearest to the direction of the 
flying ball, strikes it toward the ground, as Miss A. 
has done ; and the game continues until any of the 
players misses her stroke, or fails to make the ball 
rebound. Then she is cast out of the company, 
and the others play again in the same way as be- 
fore, until another girl fails and is cast away. 

The same process continues until there is left 
only one girl, — the one who gets the honor of 
" Kachi," or victory in the game. 



!< 



1 68 



BABY S THOUGHTS. 



[jANlfAR' 



. 



BABY'S THOUGHTS. 

" What is the little one thinking about? " It is Prince will yet find Cinderella? Doesn't she 

rery easy to guess. The picture book has dropped know that sister Anne will see "somebody coming 

from her hands ; mamma— who so often has read its to rescue poor Mrs. Blue Beard just at the right 

fairy tales to her— has left the room, and while moment, and does n't she know that Jack-the 




.:'■ 
IK 
IS 



:; 



: 



baby waits for somebody to come and dress her, 
wonderful fancies are flitting through her little 
head. 

She sees Cinderella rushing home from the ball, 
leaving her beautiful glass slipper behind her ; she 
sees Blue Beard lift his cruel scimitar over his 
poor, inquisitive little wife ; she sees Jack-the- 
Giant-Killer marching away to deeds of deadly 
daring. 

" But," you say, " these are not pleasant things 
to think about ; it would be well for mamma to 
come back." 

Ah ! that is the best part of it. Baby never was 
happier. Does n't she know very well that the 



Giant-Killer will rescue whole castlesful of dis- 
tressed damsels ? 

And are not the fairies whispering pretty things 
in her ear : and is n't Puss-in-boots standing, cap 
in hand, to wish her a merry Christmas ? 

What wonder mamma finds Baby as bright as a 
rose when she comes in ! 

We must tell you that this lovely picture of Baby 
was drawn for St. NICHOLAS, by a young girl now 
studying art in Italy. Her sketch has come a long 
way, to be sure — from Capri to New York — but 
what are a few thousand miles compared to the won- 
derful, wonderful distances reached by Baby's 
thoughts ! 



THE BEE AND THE BUTTERFLY. 



" Dear me ! dear me ! " 

Said a busy bee, 
" I 'm always making honey, - 

No time to play. 

But work all day. 

Is n't it very funny — 

Very, very funny ? ' ' 



' Oh, my ! oh, my ! " 

Said a butterfly, 
' I 'm always eating honey ; 

And yet I play 

The livelong day. 

Is n't it very funny — 

Very, very .funny?" 



1S74. J 



FOR VERY LITTLE FOLRS. 



169 



BERTIE 




"I so awful bad! Santy Claus won't come down the chim- 
ney one bit," said little Bertie, and he began to cry. Bertie 
was not four years old, and he did not know 
just how to act. He had pulled the cat's 
tail, and upset the milk-pan, and, oh, dear! 
worse than all, he had gone behind his 
grandma when she was bending over the 
fire, and said Boo! so loud that it made her 
jump, and drop her spectacles, pop ! into the 
tea-kettle. So he sat down on the floor, with his old fur cap 
on, to think about it; for this was Christmas eve. 

But bless his heart ! Grandma loved him if he did say 
Boo ! at her. So did Mamma and Papa, and so did Pussy, 
and so did Santa Claus ! When it was bed-time for Bertie, 
he wanted Grandma to go to bed, too, though it was not 
dark, so that Santa Claus would be sure to come. Grandma 
put on a funny cap, and hid under the bed-clothes, and 

Bertie hung up his stocking before he said 
his prayers. Then he squeezed his eyes 
tight shut, and went to sleep. In the 
night Santa Claus came, and before he 
went, a candy cat, a top, a ball, an or- 
ange, a barking dog 
and a jumping Jack, 
all went softly into 
Bertie's stocking, and 
waited for him to open 
his eyes. 

Oh, how glad he 
was when he woke in 
the morning ! 




170 



NEW TOYS AND GAMES FOR THE CHILDREN. 



[Januak 



HALF A LOAF IS BETTER THAN NO BREAD. 

{^Translation oj French Story in December Number.) 






Few young persons know the origin of this cele- 
brated proverb. 

In the year eleven hundred and eleven, the 
Grand Duchess Caroline Van Swing and her four ' 
lovely children assembled in the state kitchen of 
her castle, to enjoy their simple breakfast. In 
those early days condensed milk was not known, so 
the poor noble children were obliged to use com- 
mon milk ; but they had condensed bread, and 
that was a great satisfaction. The Grand Duchess 
herself made ready to prepare the meal, for, said 
she, with tears of affection, "Though a duchess, 
am I not a mother?" And the yells of her 
hungry little ones answered the question most 
eloquently. 

The noble lady, taking up a loaf, then seized the 
very knife with which her noble grandsire had con- 
quered a hundred foes. Brandishing it in the air 
for an instant, she soon, with one powerful, steady 
stroke, cut the condensed loaf in two, after the 
manner of all noble duchesses. As she did so, the 
severed half fell to the ground with a loud sound, 
and the family dog, which had been watching the 
Duchess, leaped forth from his corner of the great 
fire-place. Seizing the bread with his jaws, he 
bounded from the room, bearing his prize, amid 
the cries and screams of her dear children. 



The noble mother, in her anguish at losing hall 
of her loaf, instantly rushed to the door, and thre\ 
the remaining half at the wicked animal. 

This, hitting him on the head, made him drof 
his prize and howl pitifully. Meantime, a donke 
passing by swallowed both parts of the loaf in twi 
mouthfuls. The dog returned to the house, hum 
bled and penitent. 

" He will never steal again," said the Grand 
Duchess, gazing fondly at her weeping children 
"Why do you wee_p, my dears? But for the hal 
loaf left in my hands, I could never have punishec 
Athelponto. Console yourselves. Do you not sei 
that half a loaf is better than no bread?" 

"O yes, mother!" cried those noble children 
quite willing to go without their breakfast, sinct 
Athelponto was cured of a bad fault. 

Alas ! what boy or girl of the present day woulc 
so sacrifice comfort to principle ? 

The saying of the Grand Duchess has beer 
handed down from generation to generation, bu 
its meaning has changed. When the mothers ol 
to-day wish to teach their children to be contented 
with a little, they say : " Half a loaf is better than 
no bread." 

The world is not so heroic as it was in the days 
of the Grand Duchess Caroline Van Swing. 



NEW TOYS AND GAMES FOR THE CHILDREN. 



St. Nicholas expects to be always on the look- 
out for new games and playthings, so that our little 
folk and their parents may be told the latest inven- 
tions from Toy-land. But this number goes to press 
. too early for us to speak of all the beautiful and 
wonderful things that are in store for the coming 
holidays. 

So far, we have been able to examine only a few 
games, some of which are new, and all good, and 
well worth recommending to our young friends. 

For the older children, one of the new games is 
"Naval Chess; or, The Admiral's Blockade," a 
capital entertainment, not complicated, but with 
all the absorbing interest of chess. 

The " Quartette Game of American History," is 
another. It is historical, amusing and instructive: 

The " Lightning Express ; or, How to Travel," 



will set one thinking of what he never thought of 
before; and "Crispino" is one of the best games out. 

"Popular Characters from Dickens," is also a 
new, and a most interesting game. 

Another new game is called " Spectrum, or 
Prismatic Backgammon." It maybe played by 
any number from two to six, and is very exciting. 
It can be learned by seeing the game played once, 
and the newest player will often go far ahead of all 
his competitors. 

We must not omit "Totem," a capital little 
game for the wee ones, with fine pictures of birds 
and beasts. 

And we must tell about " Avilude," or the game 
of birds. It has sixty-four large cards, of unusual 
beauty. On thirty-two are excellent engravings 
of birds, and on the others are correct and en- 



X874-] 



NEW TOYS AND GAMES FOR THE CHILDREN. 



171 



tertaining descriptions of the same, which players 
are sure to read. Old and young will be inter- 
ested in this scientific, yet delightful entertain- 
ment. 

" The Checkered Game of Life " is not new, 
but is very captivating — quite as much so as are the 
new games, "Eskemeo" and "The Lucky Trav- 
eler," which last, however, are certainly very enter- 
taining and amusing. The new " Railroad Game," 
and the games of "Authors," "Poets," " My- 
thology," and " Popular Quotations," will tend to 
make young Solomons of the children before they 
know it; while "Poetical Pot-Pie" (a tip-top game), 
"Silhouette Comicalities" revised, the " Old Cu- 
riosity Shop." " The Tickler," "The House that 
Jack Built" (a Kindergarten game), " Comic Por- 
traitures," and the ever new " Zoetrope," will 
cause them to laugh and grow fat. 

Of puzzles, that are new, we have : "The Blind 
Abbot and Monks," a mathematical puzzle; "Ja- 
panese Pictures," and "Scroll" puzzles; the "Jack- 
o'-Lantern," and " Star Alphabet" puzzles. 

"The Chinese Perforated Target " is an excel- 
lent puzzle, which will amuse and delight both old 
and young. 

The " Eureka" puzzle is a mystery, with a string, 
which is never ending, and always beginning ; and 
the " Centennial" is a wire tease, hard to find out. 

The new "Cage" puzzle will put the girls and 
boys on their mettle. The difficulty is to get the 
ball out of the cage, without injury to the columns. 

" The Magical Trick Box" is a delightful source 
of amusement. A boy can carry it in his pocket to 
a party, and delight his friends all the evening, 
with its help. 

" The Spectograph " is a novel invention, by 
means of which a child ma}- make an accurate 
drawing without any previous instruction. It would 
be a precious gift for a little invalid. 

Another admirable amusement for the little ones, 
sick or well, is the " Kindergarten Weaving and 
Braiding Work." Paper mats, dolls' carpets, tidies, 
Ikc, can be woven by their cunning little fingers, 
with one or two lessons. 

" The Kindergarten Alphabet and Building 
'Blocks" is a great invention. The child learns to 
'read, while he thinks he is playing. 
' The "Combination Toy-Blocks" are also excel- 
lent. Furniture, buildings, boats, forts. — hundreds 
Bf objects, — can be constructed by these blocks, 
naking of them an endless source of amusement. 

There is a new table or carpet game, called, 



"Lozette," which promises considerable amuse- 
ment. It is of the same class as the "Trap Game," 
and " Lozo Pendulum Board." 

Of toy picture books, the " Little Folk Series," 
and "Uncle Ned's Picture Books," are just out. 
Also, four kinds of gilt-covered picture books; among 
them, " Dickens' Christmas Story," illustrated by 
Thomas Nast. The immortal Mother Goose makes 
her appearance in a new dress ; and Dolly Varden 
paper dolls of large size, have " come out " for 
the first time this season. 

The funniest new steam-engine toy is a colored 
gentleman, who stands on a platform on top of a 
little steam engine. Fire up the engine, and he 
has to dance, whether he wishes to or not. 

Of banks, a most useful gift in these hard times, 
the new one has a race-course on top, to show you 
where you must not put your money. It is a very 
comical bank, indeed. 

Another bank, not so new, but just as good, has 
a great bull-frog sitting on the top. You pinch his 
foot, and he opens his mouth, into which you pop 
the money, when he immediately winks at you — 
as much as to say, "That was fine! Give me 
another." 

It would be a hopeless task to attempt to enume- 
rate all the delights in preparation for our young 
friends of St. Nicholas. 

There are many other games to be found in the 
shops, not new, but dear to the boy and girl heart, 
such as "Ring-toss," "Magic Hoops," and "Parlor 
Croquet." " Smashed up Locomotive," "Dissected 
Yacht," and "Flag of all Nations," will please the 
boys. "Uncle Raphael's Puzzle-Chromos," and 
"Popping the Question," and many others, will 
delight the girls. 

Then there are the mechanical toys and small 
steam engines, and very curious running rings 
which tumble, tumble, and yet are never gone; 
and the centenary gun or cannon, which you can 
load Monday morning and pop away until Satur- 
day night, in the most perfectly safe and delightful 
manner. 

If we were to go on with all that is made for the 
delight of children St. NICHOLAS would have to 
be a book too big for a giant to handle ; so we must 
stop. 

Our boys and girls who wish any of these toys, 
may find them at nearly all the leading toy shops 
in the United States. Other shops also sell toys 
and games during the holiday season, but that 
seems hardly fair. 



172 



J A C K - I X - T H E - P U L P I T . 



f January 




JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT 



A Merry Christmas to you, my dears, and a 
very Happy New Year ! 

And now, before we begin the paragrams let us 
give three rousing cheers for St. Nicholas. All 
join in. Hip, hip, hurrah ! 

Once more, Again, Ha! ha! that 

was a good one. Now you shall hear what the 
birds have been telling me : 



A FLOATING COLLEGE. 

SOMEBODY has started a new idea. He proposes 
that, as a change from stationary colleges, there 
shall be a steamship fitted up just like a college on 
dry land in every respect, except that it is to be set 
afloat and sent wandering about the world. In this 
way students may study geography by going right 
to the spot, and in fact see for themselves all that 
they are studying about this funny globe and its 
men and manners. Pretty good idea; but I 'm 
afraid the freshman class will be hanging over the 
edge of the — college, in a wilted condition, most of 
the time ; that they '11 get sick of the thing, in 
short. I told a sea-gull friend of mine about it the 
other day and he said it was his opinion that the 
land-gulls were getting rather ahead this time. 

HE BEGAN IT FIRST. 

We Jack-in-the-Pulpits get heartily tired of the 
never-ending quarrel as to whether " Katy-did " or 
" Katy didn't." But I'm told that humankind 
have queer ways, too, in their disputes and tiffs. 
They 're very apt to think that if they don't begin 
a fight they 've a right to keep it up in about any 
way they choose. A dear old crow lately told me 
this true story about a boy named Harry, who used 
to get angry very quickly and revenge himself right 
off. His parents usually made light of his quarrels 
if Harry only said of the other fellow "he began it 
first." So it came to be a common excuse with 
him. Once he went with his mother to visit a rich 
family who had mirrors reaching from the ceiling 



to the floor. Harry had never seen such thing 
before. It was a very hot summer day, and as thi 
little fellow soon became tired of playing by himsel 
|j| in the sun, he slipped into the quiet parlor, anc 
^tS/V,:) lying down on a sofa opposite one of these bii 
i|n » mirrors, fell asleep. After a while he awoke ; rub 
bing his eyes as he stood up, he saw a boy rubbin 
his eyes, too. He looked at him wonderingly, ther; 
J fiercely, and the boy looked just as fiercely at him. 
In a moment Harry doubled up his fist, and thcj 
„,boy did the same. This was too much to bear ancl 
' he darted towards the boy (as he thought) an 
dashing his fist against the mirror, broke it in a 
thousand pieces. 
iS> Hearing the crash, his mother ran in from the 
next room, and poor Harry, picking himself up, all 
scratched and bleeding, cried out, " He began it 
first." 

THE FOOLISH TADPOLES. 

Talking of quarrels reminds me of two tad- 
poles I heard wrangling one day in our pcnd. 

Tadpoles are the queerest looking things that 
ever swam — no legs at all, very long tails, bright 
black eyes, round bodies, and thin skins. 

Said the larger tadpole to the smaller, "I do 
wish I had legs just to kick you with. You 're the 
sauciest tadpole I ever saw." 

" What did I do to you ? " asked the other. 

"You know what you did," replied the larger; 
"You made faces at me." 

" I did n't," said the small one. 

" You did; and awful faces, too," said the other; 
" I 'm so mad I feel as though I could burst, and 
now, I think of it again, I mill burst !" And he 
did burst ; and his skin fell off. Next his tail began 
to disappear, and he displayed four lovely legs ! 






"Well, I never!" said the small tadpole, 
"Where did you get those legs? And, now that 
you have got them, are you going to kick me ?" 

" When I wanted to kick you," answered the 
other, puffing himself out until he was as round as a 
ball, " I was a tadpole. Now, I am a FROG, and 
you are beneath my notice! Swim away, sonny." 

THE PACIFIC CABLE. 

YOU know that we have an Atlantic cable to 
bring us news every morning of what the kings 
and emperors and the peoples of Europe are doing 
day by day. Across the blue Atlantic ocean, three 
thousand miles wide, the telegraph wires are stretch- 
ed, and people on either side can talk with one 
another, as if they were near neighbors. 

And before many months there is to be a Pacific 
cable ; yes, across the great ocean, ten thousand 
miles wide, that lies between America and Asia. 

When this long cable is stretched across under 
the waves, your papa will read to your mamma 1 
breakfast, all about the important events that have 



1 

for 
at 



i8 7 4- 1 



JACK-IN-T HE-PULPIT. 



173 



happened in Japan and China the day before ; and 
you children can order your Chinese fire-crackers by 
telegraph. 

QUIPS AND CATCHES. 

HERE are some hints for a good time when 
you 're sitting with the folks around the fire. A 
magpie told them to a friend of mine : 

The Reverend Mr. Duzzen, when asked how many 
little girls he had, replied, ''I 've seven boys, and 
a sister for each." How many children had he? 

"Why, eight, of course. But I '11 wager most 
Jacks would say fourteen. Try them. 

A blind beggar had a brother. The brother died. 
But the deceased never had a brother. Now what 
relation was the blind beggar to the deceased ? 

(Whisper. )— „, 8 B1STEB . 

Jabez slept on the very top floor of the cottage. 
Now, what was the reason he always got up to 
breakfast and always went down to dinner ? 

Ans. — Because he had a good appetite. 

I was half an hour trying to guess that. If 
:here 's anything I do dread it is a ridiculous, chat- 
:ing magpie. 

A parrot-friend of mine, who pronounces her 
words abominably, once asked me what amphibious 
inimal I 'd make, if I were to smash a clock. 
When I gave it up, she said, " Why, you 'd crack 
l dial, of course. Pretty Poll !" 

BAD READING. 

THE other day a little chap sat near my neighbor 
5umac, reading a book. And, when suddenly he saw 
lis father coming along, he clapped the book out of 
light, and stood up in great confusion, waiting for his 
ather to pass by. Now, I didn't like that; and I 
rerewith advise that boy, and all other boys, never 
to read anything they 're ashamed of. Open out 
:very page you read, full and free in God's light 
md presence, as you must, and if it is n't fit to be 
>pened so, don't read it at all. 

Bad reading is a deadly poison ; and I, for one, 
vould like to see the poisoners — that is, the men who 
urnish it — punished like any other murderers; — 
■es, and more, — for it 's worse to kill the soul than 
'0 kill the body. 

In my opinion, parents are not half watchful 
mough in this matter, and if I were you young folks, 

would n't stand it. 

EASY SPELLING LESSON FOR BIG FOLK. 

I HEARD some fun the other day. Half a dozen 
oungsters were down our meadow with a couple of 
eachers digging for sassafras roots. After a while 
hey sat down close by me to rest, and one of the 
■oys, as mischievous a little chap as you '11 see in a 
lonth of Sundays, took a bit of paper out of his 
■ocket and says to the teachers : " Would you 
lind saying an easy spellin' lesson to us children, 



sirs ? " " Certainly not," said the teachers, looking 
very much astonished. 

By the way, I ought to tell you that the teachers, 
just before, had been asking some school questions 
of the children, and looking very solemn and disap- 
pointed because the poor little things could n't 
answer them. 

" It's a very easy lesson, sirs," said Hal, the 
mischievous youngster; "none of 'em over four 
letters, and my papa says they 're all good words out 
of Webster's big dictionary, not obsolute either." 

" Obsolete, Hal," corrected the teacher, in a 
bland but awful voice. 

" Obsolete, sir," said Hal, meekly; so he opened 
out the bit of paper and began to "hear the 
teachers," with the other five children all looking 
over his shoulder. 

" Spell and define, GITH." 

"G-i-t-h, gith," said the teachers, but they 
could n't give any definition. 

"Gowt." 

" G-o-u-t," said the teachers. 

" Wrong," says Hal; "it's G-O-w-t." But the 
teachers did n't know of any such word. 

Well, Hal kept on the list, and only two words 
in the whole lot could those teachers answer ! 
They laughed in spite of themselves, and it seemed 
as if the children would have fits. As for me, I 
shook so that I frightened off three butterflies who 
were going to alight on my shoulder. 

Here 's Hal's list. Suppose you try it on some 
of the big folks in your neighborhood. Turn about 
is fair play : 

SARD ANIL ALB AWN NOG NEB GEST 
DOIT OST HIN HOLM WHIN OUCH GOWT 
AGIO GITH AI SHAG AIT ANTA HOLT 

FLOWER CROSSES BY THE WAY SIDE. 

Here is something about Brittany, in France. 
Many of the little boys and girls, who live there, 
watch, all day long, the cows in the fields, or flocks 
of sheep on the hills. But the hours would be 
tedious if they sat with their hands folded all the 
time. So, while sitting on the green earth, watch- 
ing the cows sleepily chewing their cud, or the 
sheep browsing on the grass, the little peasants 
busy themselves in making flower crosses. They 
always form the cross with the branches of the 
furze, and then fasten to its thorns daisies and the 
pretty flowers of the broom ; and when the cross is 
done, they set it up by the way-side in the hedge 
fences. Sometimes a long row of these flower 
crosses may be seen on the hedges. Do you know 
what Jack thinks ? Jack thinks that it 's a very 
good plan to set up flower' crosses along the hedges 
of life ; and that, when real flowers are scarce, these 
crosses can be made of kind looks and pleasant 
words. Is n't it so, my dears ? 



174 



BOOKS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. 



[jANUAR'j 






BOOKS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. 



JUST now, in anticipation of the holidays, the 
publishers are showering down their gift-books by 
the dozen, in bindings gay as autumn leaves. One 
would almost think St. Nicholas had tumbled his 
whole library out for the benefit of his boys and ' 
girls ; for the very prettiest of all are for them; but, 
of course, the dear old saint cannot be expected to 
put on his glasses, and read them, every one, with 
his own eyes. He seems to take it for granted that 
whatever is written for his little folks will be sweet 
and wholesome, and he leaves it for the parents 
and friends to select the book that suits them best. 
In this, some are guided by the publishers, some 
by the author's name, and some by the color of the 
binding. But, alas ! a gay binding is often a de- 
lusion, and even an author's name may occasion- 
ally mislead one as to the nature of a book. Take, 
for example, Miss Phelps' new story, in its gold 
and purple covers, just issued by Osgood & Co., 
of Boston. 

Miss Phelps is a delightful writer, and her fear- 
less pen has done good sendee in many a worthy 
cause ; but, for all that, we cannot help feeling that 
Trolty's Wedding Tour is a sad mistake. Some of 
us have heard of Trotty before, how he married 
Miss Nita Thayer ; and he is the same foolish boy 
still. If he goes on as he has begun, he hardly can 
fail to become either a Blue Beard or a Brigham 
Young. But, poor little fellow ! he is to be pitied 
rather than blamed ; for, certainly of himself, so 
mere a baby could never have learned the meaning 
of duels and divorces. If he were the Last Boy, 
then the Last Man and his wife could afford to be 
very much amused by him ; but, for the sake of all 
little boys and girls, present and to come, we are 
sorry his history has been invented. 

We turn with a sense of relief from Trotty and 
his unhappy little wives to Whittier's Child-Life, in 
Prose, published by the same house. 

" The soul of genius and the heart of childhood 
are one," says the poet-editor; and the book is a 
collection of some of the daintiest and brightest bits 
of genius to be found in children's literature. As in 
"Child-Life in Poetry," — the companion book to 
the present volume, — Mr. Whittier has been assisted 
by Miss Lucy Larcom, of whose taste and judgment 
he makes grateful mention in the preface ; and the 
thanks of our little folk are due to both these gentle 
friends. 

The book is handsomely bound and illustrated; 
and boys and girls who now turn its pages with de- 
light, will like it better and better as the years go on. 



Maft's Follies, and other stories, by Mary N 
Prescott, is another handsome volume from Messrs 
J. R. Osgood & Co. 

Though Matt is a "live" boy, up to mischief ii 
every shape and form, we like him immensely ; bu 
we pity Aunt Jane, and hope that, for her sake, a 
least, the young man will try to mend his ways. 

All the stories in this book are bright, happy anc 
wholesome. 



From Robert Carter & Bros, comes Fanny 1 . 
Birthday Gift, by that charming writer, Joanna H 
Mathews. 



, 



One of the heroes of this pleasant story is Robbie 
Fanny's little brother, who. on her birthday, pre- 
sents to her a picture of his own execution. Like 
many another production of genius, it is something 
of a puzzle at first, but proves, according to Robbie's 
explanation to be ''Balaam's ass carryin' on and 
kickin' up like anything, 'cause the Philistines tied 
a tin kettle to his tail ; and George Washington, 
who was always kind to animals, was tryin' to take 
it off." How Fanny kept a straight face when that 
picture was explained, it is hard to see ; but she 
did, — the book says so, — and thanked the little ar- 
tist just as heartily as she thanked the others for 
their more elegant gifts. 

There is a book — Sledman's Poems — just pub- 
lished by Osgood & Co. — which we have read with 
great satisfaction, and which, though it is not a child's 
book, we should like to see given to every young 
person we know. The poems all are in pure, simple 
English, and nearly all have a grand story to tell. 
Better still, they are the songs of a true poet, — an 
American poet, — who, ripe scholar and man of the 
world that he is, still cherishes his youth, and has 
an echo in his ringing verse for all that is highest 
in the heart of a noble boy or girl. 

Children of the Olden Time, re-published by 
Scribner, Armstrong & Co., is an out-of-the-com- 
mon and instructive book, by the author of "A Trap 
to Catch a Sunbeam," and one of the most fascinat- 
ing little volumes we have seen for many a day. 
Though dedicated to the children of England, it 
will be equally attractive to the children on this 
side of the ocean. 

Five tasteful books come to our table, just as this 
number of St. NICHOLAS is going to press: 

The first. What Katy Did at School (Roberts 
Bros.), is a sequel to What Katy Did, by good 



i8 74 -' 



THE RIDDLE BOX. 



Susan Coolidge, who holds one of the brightest and 
bravest pens that ever wrote for young readers. 

The second is, Giles' Minority, by Mrs. Robert 
O'Reilly, whose Doll World is a delight to all real 
girls and women. 

The third, by Mrs. Eiloart (from G. P. Put- 
nam's Sons), is called, The Boy with an Idea, — 



a good many ideas, wc should say, judging from 
the table of contents, which is a boy's novel in itself. 
And then there are two others, (from Macmillan 
& Co). Queer Folk, by Mr. Knatchbull-Hugessen, 
who wrote "Tales at Tea-time," and other funny 
books; and Young Prince Marigold, by John 
Francis Maeuire. 



THE RIDDLE BOX. 



REBUS. 




NUMERICAL ENIGMA. 

I AM composed of 20 letters : 

1. My 12, 13, 15, 7, S, 20. Hark! how merrily they 
^ring on this crisp Christmas morn. 

1 2. My 16, 17, I, 5. A twinkling little light, that led 
1 the Eastern seekers to our Lord. 

. 3. My 18, 15, 10, 17, 13. Dear St. Nick to the hearts 
I of his patrons brings this ! 
; 4. My 2, 3. Little reader, it 's only I ! 
j .5- My 9, 19, 11. Light in this form was the key to a 
.grand discovery. 

6. My 12, 13, 8, 14, 4, 6. A tree or its fruit. 

My whole, dear friend, sincerely I wish you. 



CHARADE. 

My first comes from the Emerald Isle, 
Or else is given in play ; 

My second is a useful grain, 
Or else a crooked way. 

My last is silver, paper, shell. 

Sometimes 't is ruddy gold; 
Or else it is a Scottish word — 

At least, so we are told. 

My whole, though hoarded by the sire, 

Is wasted by the son. 
With ad the hints that I now give. 

My meaning must be won. 

SYNCOPATION. 

My name, as you will plainly see, 
Denotes a flower, but not a tree ; 
Syncopate, then give me hay, 
And you can ride me far away. 

CROSS WORD. 

My first is in bugle, but not in horn. 

My second in meal, but not in corn. 

My third is in oyster, but not in clam. 

My fourth is in sheep, but not in lamb. 

My fifth is in cut, but not in shave. 

My sixth is in good, but not in brave. 

My seventh is in dance, but not in jig. 

My eighth is in sloop, but not in brig. 

My ninth is in prune, but not in fig. 

The letters placed rightly, all clear and distinct. 

Will show you a quadruped long since extinct. 



REBUS. 




_~^ *-■"**'' 



1 76 



THE RIDDLE BOX. 



["January 



REBUS. 




HIDDEN PARTS OF 

1. No one should be a miser. 

2. It is a shame to shun the poor. 

3. Did you ever see a vessel wrecked ? 
You will find your uncle at home. 
One who is uncivil is illbred. 
I bought some meal at Chandler's. 
Oh! what fine potatoes ! I will take 

a bushel for Father. 
S. Stop ! O stop ! that idle talk ! 



A BUILDING. 



4- 
5- 
6. 

7- 



PUZZLE. 

I AM useful on the farm, and on shipboard. Trans- 
pose me, and I am not out of place on your tables. 
Change me to my original form, and remove my middle, 
and I become a part of your face. What am I ? 



ELLIPSES. 
(Fill the blanks with the same words transposed.) 



I. He sits and ■ 



■ over his ■ 



The poor child could only 



through hen 



3. They kept on the so as to 

position. 

4. With his he killed three . 

5. — sometimes wound worse than the ■ 



their 



■ flew to the ■ 



■ for shelter. 



■ was walking on the - 



6. The - 

7. The ■ 

8. She was very clean, and had much - 

STAR PUZZLE. 
Arrange eight words, having the following significa- 
tions, so as to read the same up and down, vertically; 
east and west, horizontally ; and, diagonally, right and 
left, up and down : 



I. To indent. 2. To put on. 3. To broach. 



To 



marry. 5. Extremity. 6. To bend the head. 7. Con- 
venient. S. Moisture. 

DECAPITATION. 

In' summer's heat and winter's cold, 
I 'm worn by many, young and old; 
Cut off my head, and then behold ! 
I 'm better far than finest gold, 
And never bought, and never sold. 

CHARADE. 

My first can be a useful slave, 

Obedient to your will ; 
Yet let him once the master be, 

He '11 ruin, rage, and kill. 

To do my second through the air 

All men have tried in vain, 
And yet it may be often seen 

Upon your window-pane. 

My whole on summer nights is seen 
A fairy lamp to light the green. 



ANSWERS TO RIDDLES AND PUZZLES IN THE DECEMEER NUMBER. 



Classical Diamond Puzzle. — Narcissus. 



N 

PAX 

LARES 

A G A C L E S 

: A R C I S S U ! 

THESEUS 

B E S S I 

FUR 



Charade. — Season. 

Hidden Square Words. — z e s 



Double Acrostic- 



Diamond- Emerald. 


D 


— anub — E 


1 


— te— M 


A 


— rticl— E 


M 


— urdere — R 


0- 


-Ua Podrid— A 


N 


— umera — L 



Square Remainders. - 



T — rue 
T — urn 
L — end 



Rebus. — Napoleon. (Nap-pole-on.) 

Pictorial Double Acrostic. — Plum-tree : Parrot, ladder, um- 
brage, mule. 



Charge, charger, s. Scamp, 
teller. 5. Barb, barber. 6. 



D — avi — 



POSITH'ES AND COMPARATIVES. — I 

scamper. 3. Lad, ladder. 4. Tell 
Din, dinner. 

Puzzle — Curious Epitaph : 

The milk of human kindness was my own dear cherub wife; 

I Ml never find another one as good in all my life. 

She bloomed, she blossomed, she decayed, 

And under this tree her body is laid. 

Several of our young friends have sent answers to the Geo- 
graphical Rebus and other puzzles, and we were glad to hear from 
them all- 

Johnny A., F. E. M., N. O. P., L. P., A. F. E., and A. W. are 
correct in their answers, O. A. W. and " New Yorkers" sent the 
longest lists of names in answer to the Geographical Rebus. 



ST. NICHOLAS. 



Vol. I. 



FEBRUARY, 1874. 



No. 4. 



THE COST OF A PLEASURE. 

[From the Spanish of Jose Rosus. ] 

By William Cullen Bryant. 



Upon the valley's lap, 
The dewy morning throws 

A thousand pearly drops, 
To wake a single rose. 



Thus often, in the course 
Of life's few fleeting years, 

A single pleasure costs 
The soul a thousand tears. 



BIANCA AND BEPPO. 

By J. S. Stacy. 



Bianca and Beppo were two little Italian chil- 
dren. Their father was a duke, and they lived 
years and years ago, when a brilliant and cruel 
woman named Catherine de Medici was living her 
wicked life. I shall not tell you what she did, for 
this story is about Bianca and Beppo. It will 
be enough for you to know that, through her wick- 
edness, a terrible trouble came to the home where 
these children lived. 

It was a beautiful castle, adorned with fine pic- 
tures, lovely statuary, and flowers that bloomed at 
nearly every window ; and the brilliant colors on its 
walls and floors were so cunningly mingled, that 
they were known to be there only by a sense of 
brightness that filled the great rooms. There 
were singing birds too, that sang just as our birds 
sing to-day. But pictures, or flowers, or birds, 
were not half so bright, blooming, and merry as 

Vol. I. — 12. 



Beppo and Bianca. Their father used to say that 
the very armor hanging in his halls, tingled with 
their childish laughter. 

One night, when their mother was away on a 
visit, the children lying in their little carved and 
gilded beds, side by side, were wakened by a 
smothered noise, as if men were scuffling below ; 
and after that they could not go to sleep again, 
because the castle was so very, very still. For a 
long time they lay trembling and silent; at last 
Beppo said : 

" Bianca, wait thou here while I go down and 
speak to our father. Perhaps he is still asleep. 
There has been evil work done, and I should have 
roused him long ago." 

"Nay, Beppo," said Bianca, shuddering, "our 
men have been fighting, and it may be their swords 
are drawn yet. Do not go among them. Thou 



i 7 8 



BIANCA. AND BEPPO. 



[February, 



knowest how the people of the wicked duke Faust- 
ino fell upon Martigni one night when they were 
drunken, and nearly killed him. Martigni is taller 
by a head than thou art." 

' ' Aye, but the duke's attendants do not care for 
their household, and ours love us well ; besides," 
said Beppo, proudly, "I could handle a sword my- 
self, if need be." 

" Take me with thee," said Bianca. 

So the two children rose softly, and hastily put- 
ting on their clothes, stole down the dark, stone 



ing from the chamber, out into the long dark hall, 
and on through the great oaken door that, stand- 
ing open, led to a marble terrace. 

Beppo followed her. On his way he saw one of 
the duke's attendants lying very still. 

"Fesco! Fesco ! are you hurt?" called Beppo, 
again and again. 

But Fesco did not answer ; and, with a shudder, 
the boy bounded past him and joined Bianca on 
the terrace. 

Down the long walk, past the beautiful gar- 




said beppo; "what is that '! ' 



stairway together. Once a ray of moonlight, com- 
ing through a high narrow window overhead, made 
them start, but when they reached their father's 
chamber and found the door wide open, the bed 
empty, disordered, and signs of violence in the 
moon-lighted room, they clung to each other in 
dread and terror. 

" What ho ! " cried Beppo, finding voice at last. 
" without, there ! " 

There was no answer. 

Bianca, hardly knowing what she did, ran scream- 



den, and out through the open gateway they flew 
together, two little half-clad children, chilly with 
fear on that warm, bright night, and trembling at 
every sound. O, if their father would but return ! 

The forest was near by — gloomy and grim now 
in its shadows — but safer, at any rate, than the open 
highway. They would hide there, they thought, 
till morning. 

But the night was nearly over, and very soon 
the faint streaks that lit the edge of the sky spread 
and grew brighter and brighter. The children sat 



iS 7 4-] 



BIANCA AND BEPPO. 



179 



on a mound of earth for a while and with tearful 
eyes watched the growing light. Then Bianca 
found some fruit that she had stowed the day 
before in a satchel hanging from her girdle. She 
put it into Beppo's cap, and begged him to eat. 

" I cannot," said Beppo. " Hark ! what is 
that ? " 

They listened. It was a faint sound as of a child 
moaning. 

" Oh ! oh ! " sobbed Bianca, " what can it be ? " 

But when Beppo rose bravely and ran in the di- 
rection of the sound, she followed him, and peered 
as sharply as he into every bush. Suddenly Beppo 
sprang forward with a joyful cry. 

He had seen his father. 

In an instant the two children were bending over 
him, eagerly trying to catch his indistinct words. 

" I have been wounded, my little ones," he said, 
slowly ; " can you bring me water ? " 

They did not wait to wring their hands and cry. 
Beppo, forgetting his fears, — forgetting everything 
but that his father needed help, — flew to his 
home. 

At the portal, whom should he see but Fesco, 
standing in the doorway, staring wildly about him. 

The water was soon obtained, though it might 
have been brought sooner, if Beppo, in his excite- 
ment, had not forgotten the little stream near the 
great sycamore. And Beppo and Fesco ran to the 
forest together. 

When they reached the spot where the duke lay, 
Bianca, under her father's directions, was doing all 
she could to staunch his wound ; her little face was 
"very pale, but she looked up with a bright smile as 
Beppo approached. 

" Father says he will get well, Beppo, but we 
•are not to move him from this soft bed, he says. 
See, I have heaped leaves under his head, and 
I brought water in my hands from the brook. 
And I have been praying, Beppo — we have been 
praying." 

It is a long, long story, if you hear every word of 
it; but you will be glad to get quickly to the happy 
part. Beppo was right ; there had been evil work. 
Fesco had been drugged, and had slept so heavily, 
that but for the fresh night-air blowing so steadily 
upon him, he might never have wakened. 

The duke had been carried from the castle and 
1 stabbed. His guilty, frightened assassins, thinking 



him dead, had thrown him into the forest. All of 
the duke's servants, excepting Fesco, had fled in 
terror at the first alarm. 

Fesco now tried to induce his wounded master to 
be taken back to his own chamber, but the duke 
would not consent. He lay concealed in the forest for 
many days, and every day his children tended him 
by turns. They brought him cooling drinks and 
fruits, and fanned him when the breezes were low ; 
and as he grew better they sang sweet little songs 
to him, and carried messages back and forth be- 
tween the duke and Fesco. Meantime the fright- 
ened servants had returned ; but Fesco knew lie 
could not trust them with his secret. Only Mino, 
the old nurse, was told that the duke was alive, and 
that the children must be allowed to go to him ; 
but Fesco threatened her with such terrible things 
if she breathed a word about it, that she was only 
too glad to pretend to mourn her master's loss 
with the other servants. The duke sent word to 
his wife, through the faithful Fesco, to stay in safe 
quarters for a while, until he should be able to join 
her ; and the two children, busy as bees, and 
thoughtful, night and day, for their dear patient 
hidden in the forest, were happy as children could 
be. It was Bianca's delight to gather flowers in 
the coolest places and heap them up under her 
father's head ; and Beppo was proud to stand guard 
at his father's feet, sword in hand, ready to fight 
off any enemy that might approach. 

But no enemy came, only the good friends health 
and strength. And one night the duke and Fesco 
and the children, disguised as gypsies, rode away 
in an old wagon for miles and miles, until at last 
they came to a shepherd's cottage, where the 
duchess was waiting for them; and a happier meet- 
ing than theirs never took place on earth. 

Do you want to hear more ? 

After that, Beppo's father and mother went to 
live, for a while, in Germany, taking their children 
with them, while Fesco stayed at home to look 
after his master's possessions. But one fine day, 
something happened, or somebody relented or 
changed in some way which I do not exactly know, 
for I have never heard the particulars, so that the 
duke and his family were able to go back and 
live in their castle peacefully and happily ; and 
once more the old walls rang with the merry 
laughter of Bianca and Beppo. 



i8o 



what's the fun? 



[ February, 



WHAT 'S THE FUN ? 

By Olive A. Wadsworth. 

What a curious world is ours ! 

Full of months and days and hours ; 

What 's the good of January ? 

What 's the use of February ? 

Tell me, mamma, all their reasons, — 

What 's the fun of months and seasons ? ' 



What 's the fun of January ? 

Bitter frosts and winds contrary ! 

Snowballs flying, children shying, 

Skaters swiftest races trying, 

Snow men standing grim and ghostly, 

Snow forts, breached and battered mostly. 

Sleigh-bells jingling, fingers tingling, 

Icicles as long as lances, 

Diamond dust that gleams and glances, , 

Ice-bound lakes and gales contrary, — 

That 's the fun of January ! 




r«s£mk 




What 's the fun of February ? 
Skies that change, and winds that vary ! 
Freezing flaws, flooding thaws, — 
In and out of Winter's jaws. 

Then we send our valentines 
Billet-doux and tender lines, 

Blazing hearts, winged darts ; 

Cupid 's king of coaxing arts ! 

Then each John may choose his Mary, 

Spite of skies and winds that vary, — 

That 's the fun of February ! 



What 's the fun of March the boisterous ? 
Then the winds are wild and roisterous L 
Snow-flakes blowing, Winter's going: 
That is why he 's mad and boisterous t 
All his bluster and his noise 
Can't deprive us of our joys. 
Call the boys, bring the toys, 



I8 7 4] 



WHAT S THE FUN? 



181 



Games so jolly, dolls so arch, 
Nuts to crack and corn to parch ; 
Lulu's birthday comes "in March, 
Comes with freak and frolic roisterous, — 
That's the fun of March the boisterous ! 



1 What 's the fun of April showery ? 
Then the heavens are gray and lowery, 
Rain-drops fall, soaking all ; 
Where the brooks were, torrents brawl ; 
And the soft incessant showers 
Wake at last the sleeping flowers. 
Lads at school, spite of rule, 
Play their pranks for April fool ; 
Jolly they, though skies be lowery, — 
That 's the fun of April showery ! 




What 's the fun of May the tender ? 
May 's so fair, no art could mend her, 
For she brings all the spring's 
Long-desired exultant splendor. 

Soft and green the sunny sedges, 
Sweet the snowy-blossomed hedges, 
Golden-starred the roadside edges : 
Fragrance rare everywhere 
Breathes through all the heavenly air ; 

Fair with all the spring's young splendor, 
Tliat 's the fun of Mav the tender ! 



" What's the fun of June the glorious? 
Queen of months she reigns victorious ! 

Blooms she showers, seas of flowers, 
Decking woods and meads and 
bowers. 
Skies are blue and zephyrs quiet. 
Birds and birdlings all run riot, 
Chirp and song all day long 
Trilling from the woodland throng. 
Fair at evening, morn and noon, 
Regal, radiant, jubilant June. 
Oueen of months she reigns victori- 




T/iat 's the fun of June the glorious! 



WHAT S THE FUN ? 



[February 




What's the fun of hot July, then? 

Cooling fruitlets you may try them ; 

Plump gooseberries, ruby cherries, 

Currants red, and whortleberries ; 

Just the time for cherry pie then. 
In the sun's resplendent rays 
Scarlet lilies flame and blaze. 



~?^S 



Now the glorious Fourth appears, 
Gay with guns and flags and cheers, 
Horses prancing, helmets glancing,' 
Children's eyes with pleasure dancing, 
Fire-works hissing, whirling, whizzing ! 
Fiery rockets rush on high then, — 
That 's the fun of hot July, then ! 



" What 's the fun of August burning? 

Weary folks are seaward turning. 

In the streets torrid heats 

Quiver where the fierce sun beats. 

By the ocean, coolness, motion, 
Beauty 's found, and waves' commotion 
Breakers roaring, swimmers swimming, 
Spray and foam and bubbles brimming, 



g5 V _/«$? V=3g\ 




Dainty crafts their white wings trimming; 
Vanished health and heart returning, — 
That 's the fun of August burning ! 



" What 's the fun September bringeth ? 
Nature's treasures wide she flingeth ! 
Pumpkins round and ripe and yellow, 
Apples sound and sweet and mellow ; 
Stacks of grain, safe from rain, 





lS-4] 



WHAT S THE FUN? 



183 



Granaries almost filled to bursting; 
By the hill the cider-mill 
Turns its wheels and sets us thirsting ; 
Corn and beans from far afield, 
White and gold a bounteous yield ; 
Lavish hoards abroad she flingeth, — 
That 's the fun September bringeth ! 

•What's the fun of red October? 
Then the earth doth gayly robe her ; 
On the woods, scarlet hoods ; 
On hills and dales, purple veils, 
Golden crowns, and gorgeous trails ; — 
Autumn's glory summer pales ! 
Bring the nuts and apples in, 
Stuff the bags and cram the bin ; 
That 's the way the sports begin, 
While the earth doth richly robe her,— 
That 's the fun of red October ! 

'What's the fun of drear November? 
Gather round the glowing ember, 
While it flashes, darts, and dashes ; 
Toast the chestnuts in the ashes. 
Homeward call the wanderers cheery, 



Hearts are light, though skies are dreary ; 
Once a year, with good cheer, 
Glad Thanksgiving brings them near; — 
Best of days, when we praise 
Him who orders all our ways ! 
Happiest days, when round the fire 
Loved ones gather nigh and nigher. 
Pile the hickory high and higher ! 
Fan the flame and blow the ember, — 
That 's the fun of drear November I 



'What 's the fun of sharp December. 
Can't my little lass remember? 
Days are shorter, nights are colder, 
For the year is growing older. 
Never mind, fun 's behind, 
Santa Claus is always kind ! 
Christmas, long a-coming, comes, — 
Clear the way for sugar-plums. 
Tops and books and dolls and drums ! 
Royal cheer, carols clear, — 
So we crown the happy year ! 
Lulu, lassie, please remember, 
That 's the fun of sharp December ! " 




"snow men standing grim and ghostly." 



1 84 



FAST FRIENDS. 



[February, 



FAST FRIENDS. 
By J . T . Trowbridge. 

Author of ike " Jack Hazard" Stories. 



Chapter V. 
"a bad fix." 

"Let us off! put us ashore!" cried George, 
rushing hither and thither. " Where 's the captain 
of this boat ? " he shouted, furiously. 

" Hush your noise ! " said the Other Boy, catch- 
ing him by the coat-tail, and trying to hold him. 
" Be quiet, I tell you." 

"Be quiet? when that pickpocket has got my 
money? " George retorted, with uncontrollable ex- 
citement. " I can't go to New York without 
money ! " 

" You can't go ashore either," said the Other 
Boy. 

" I will, if I have to swim ! " 

" And leave your trunk aboard ? " 

George had n't thought of his trunk. " But I 'm 
ruined ! " 

" So am I," said the Other Boy, with a self- 
mastery quite in contrast with George's agitation. 
" But what 's the use of making a ridiculous fuss? 
Don't you see everybody 's laughing at us ? " 

There was too much truth in that. Not that the 
spectators were heartless ; but, really, the aspect of 
our tall young poet rushing wildly about, bewailing 
his loss, shrieking for the captain, and demanding 
in an agony of despair to be put ashore, — his hat 
fallen back on his head, his hair tumbled, and his 
hands stretching far out of his short coat-sleeves, — 
was too ludicrous not to move the mirth of the most 
sympathizing breast. 

George, perceiving the justness of the remark, 
and being sensitive to ridicule, calmed himself a 
little. 

" But what shall we do ? " he implored. 

" That 's more than I know ! " replied the Other 
Boy, despairingly ; "but tearing around in this fash- 
ion won't help matters. You can't expect the steam- 
boat will put back just to land us ! And I would n't 
go back if I could. " 

"Why not?" 

"What would be the use? There would n't be 
one chance in a thousand of getting our money 
again, even if we should catch the pickpocket." 

" The youngster is right," said a plain old gen- 
tleman, who had been carefully observing the boys. 
" The two men who crowded so close to you when 
you were holding the one in a fit, were probably 
his accomplices. You noticed they stayed ashore 



too, did n't you ? There 's no knowing which of 'em 
took your money, or which has it now. It 's prob- 
ably divided by this time. The fit was, of course, 
a sham, a trick to lay hold of you, and get at your 
pockets." 

"I had twenty-nine dollars!" said George, in 
doleful accents, remembering how long he had been 
laying up that little sum, which seemed so large a 
sum to him. 

"And I had forty!" said the Other Boy, rue- 
fully; " it was all I could scrape together for my 
journey. Now, what I am going to do, I don't 
know any more than you do. But I 'd rather be in 
New York than in Albany. There 's a better 
chance of finding something to do there. Besides, 
that's where my business is, at any rate." 

George began to recover his spirits. Perhaps he 
remembered the manuscripts in his trunk. 

" But," he objected, "7 have n't a cent ! I can't 
even pay my passage ! " 

"Nor I. And I don't believe the clerk will be 
so unreasonable as to expect us to, when he knows 
the circumstances. The best way will be to go 
straight to the office and tell him." 

George agreed that that would be the most frank 
and honorable course. But first they looked for a 
man to whom the runner had introduced them, and 
who had engaged that they should ha.ve their tickets 
at the reduced rates. In searching for him they 
learned that tickets were selling to everybody at 
twenty- five cents, " for that day only; " so they con- 
cluded to go without him. 

There was a large crowd pressing towards the 
office, and it was some time before they, in their 
turn, arrived at the window. 

"Twenty-five cents," said the clerk, who stood 
ready to shove them their tickets, and sweep back 
their money. 

"We have had our pockets picked," said the 
Other Boy. 

"Just as the boat left the wharf," added George, 
over his shoulder. 

" Twenty-five cents ! " repeated the clerk, firmly. 
" If you have n't any money, pass along, and make 
room for them that have." 

"But," the Other Boy remonstrated, "we have 
been robbed, and we thought certainly " 

" How many? " said the clerk to the next comer. 
"Four tickets, one dollar." And he pushed out 
the tickets, and drew in the dollar, then attended 



1874-J 



FAST FRIENDS. 



I8 5 



to the next man. He appeared to have no more 
feeling for our unlucky boys than if he had been a 
machine. 

" Never mind! " said the Other Bcv, with a stern 
smile, his face slightly flushed. "It's a bad fix; 
but we are bound for New York ! " 

George's face was very much flushed. His feet 
were cold as ice. All his vital forces seemed to 
have rushed to his head to see what the matter was, 
and to press their assistance at an alarming crisis. 
It was like an impetuous crowd of citizens rushing 
to defend a breach in the walls, where a handful of 
disciplined troops would render much better ser- 
1 vice. Such excessive excitability is, 
no doubt, a defect of character, until 
it has been mastered by a wise 
head and firm will, when what was 
before a source of weakness becomes 
an element of strength. 

George envied his companion the 
self-control he was able to preserve on 
such an occasion ; and he remembered, 
with shame, some too valorous lines 
in his " Farewell." 

" Fare-thee-well, thou mighty forest! 
While with battling winds thou wariest. 
Forth my storm-defying vessel 

(Ribs of kindred oak) I steer. 
With the gales of fate to wrestle, 

As thou strivest with them here ! 

'* Let the tempest drive and pour ! 
Let the thunders rave and roar ! 
Let the black vault yawn above, 

Lightning riven ! 
Naught my steadfast star shall move 

From its heaven ! " 

Thus he had written, and thus he 
had felt (of fancied he felt), the night 

'before his departure from home. And 

: now, here he was, thrown into a flurry 
of excitement by the loss of a paltry 
pocket-book ! 

"We may as well take it easy," said the Other 

I Boy ; and they went forward to some piles of rope 
at the bow, where they ensconced themselves, and 
sat watching the bright waters rushing past, and 

I the scenery on the shores, and talked over the situ- 
ation. "Now, let's look this thing square in the 

iface, and see just what our prospects are, and if 
there is any way out of the scrape." 

George replied that he could not see any possible 
way out. 

"You Ye the advantage over me," said the 
Other Boy. " You 're going to the city to stay, — 
to earn money. I was n't intending to stop there 
long. I expected to spend money, — not to earn 



any. And now I have n't a dime to spend ! You 
see, I 'm in an awful scrape." 

"You are; that's a fact!" said George, sym- 
pathetically, yet secretly comforted by the thought 
that his own bad luck was not the worst. And he 
added, " We ought to stick together, anyhow, aod 
help each other if we can. " 

" I 'm not the fellow to say no to that !" laughed 
the Other Boy. "I promise to stand by you, as 
long as you '11 stand by me." 

" Then we are fast friends," exclaimed George, 
warmly. " Whatever comes, — good luck or bad 
luck, — we '11 suffer and share alike, if you say so." 




THE OLD GENTLEMAN HANDED THEM HALF A DOLLAR." 

And having made this compact, both boys felt 
their hearts lightened. Not only does misery love 
company, but our courage to confront a frowning 
and uncertain future is more than doubled by the 
trust inspired by a friend at our side. 

Chapter VI, 

HOW THE BOYS PAID THEIR FARE. 

While they were talking, a stout man, with an 
official air, came along and asked if they were the 
fellows who could n't pay their fare. 

"We had our pockets picked just as we came 
aboard," began George, "and we haven't any 
money ; and we " 



1 86 



FAST FRIENDS. 



[February, 



" I know the rest," interrupted the man : " you 
need n't tell it." 

"You saw the operation ? " said George, eagerly. 

" No. But I 've heard the story rather too many 
times ; no danger of my forgetting it ! " 

."From the passengers?" said George, who, 
simple-hearted and inexperienced, was too much 
inclined to take every sober man's word in earnest. 
But the Other Boy detected sarcasm in the man's 
cold tone of voice. 

" From just such fellows as you," replied the 
man. " It 's a fine excuse for shirking your fares, 
— you 've lost your money, or. had your pockets 
picked, — the same thing ; one story 's as good as 
another; and neither will go down with me." 

George looked aghast; while the Other Boy 
spoke up quickly — 

" Plenty of people saw the pickpockets take our 
money ; and if you don't believe us " 

* ' I '11 believe you as soon as I '11 believe a man 
who says he saw a pickpocket take your money, 
and did n't report him on the spot. He 's no bet- 
ter than a pickpocket himself." 

The boys felt the force of this argument ; and, 
indeed, how could any spectator know that they 
had not been playing a game, in order to make it 
appear that they were robbed? Although one 
must have allowed that, at least, George's conster- 
nation at his loss was either very real, or very well 
acted, indeed. 

" We tell you the truth I" said George, with a sin- 
cerity that ought to have been convincing. 
■■ " And if you won't believe us, or those persons 
who saw the whole affair," added his companion, 
falling back upon a certain stubbornness, and de- 
fiance of the worst, which were marked traits in his 
character, " I don't know what you'll do about 
it." 

"That's simple enough," replied the man. 
" You pay your fares or you '11 be put ashore at 
the next landing." He turned away, but paused, 
and added in the same business-like tone, " You 've 
no baggage, of course." 

" Yes, we have baggage," said George. 

The man appeared a little surprised. No doubt 
it was unusual for such tricksters as he took them 
for, to be encumbered with luggage, but he did 
not relent. 

"You'd better get it ready," he said. "You'll 
be put off at Hudson, and you won't want to go 
without your traps." 

" This is lovely ! " said the Other Boy, knitting 
his brows and compressing his lips, while his com- 
panion was simply confounded. 

"We don't want to be left at Hudson, or any 
other place ! " George said, pale with alarm. 

" Only twenty-five cents ! Just think of it ! " ex- 



claimed the Other Boy, with a laugh which did 
not have an overflowing amount of mirth in it. 
" That 's too absurd ! They never '11 do it ! " 

" I'm afraid they will ! Why not ? " asked 
George. 

" They '11 threaten us, to make us fork over our 
fares if we have any money, of course ; but when 
they find we have n't, they can't be so mean ! 
Besides, the passengers who saw the affair will in- 
terfere. I 'm not going ashore at Hudson ! Come ! 
we '11 find some of them. There 's that old gentle- 
man ! " 

He was the same who had spoken to the boys 
before. He now listened kindly to their story and 
said : 

"No, I don't think they will really put you off 
the boat ; but you can't blame them for being a 
little suspicious of you, there are so many rogues 
trying all the while to cheat them out of their 
fares." 

"And so we, who are innocent, must suffer 
because there are imposters ! " exclaimed George, 
indignantly. 

" Yes, that 's the way it works. If everybody 
was honest," said the old gentleman, " then we 
should have no cause to lock our doors or shut our 
ears to the appeals of the unfortunate. So you see 
how uncomfortable liars and knaves make the 
world for us. But I think I know honest boys 
when I see them, and I am satisfied you tell the 
truth. It 's a small matter, and I may save you 
some trouble by lending you the amount of our 
fares." 

" Oh ! " said both boys at once. 

The old gentleman handed them half a dollar, 
saying, "Now you needn't give yourselves any 
trouble about it ; but when it is perfectly con- 
venient you may repay me. Here is my 
card." 

The boys thanked him as well as they could, — 
the tongue never can speak what the heart feels at 
such times, — and George said : 

" I wish you would go with us, sir, and tell that 
man that you lend us the money, for I don't want 
him to think we had it in our pockets all the 
time." 

•• That 's natural," said the old gentleman ; and, 
as they soon met the officer coming towards them 
again, he accosted him, and standing by the boys, 
explained why they were then able to pay their 
fares, and bore his testimony to their honesty. 

"' I 'm glad you are satisfied," replied the man, 
" and I hope you '11 see your money again ! " 

" I 'm sure I shall, if they are prospered," said 
the old gentleman, with a smile. "By the way, 
boys, I believe I neglected to take your names." 

" Mine is George Greenwood." 



i8?4-] 



FAST FRIENDS. 



I8 7 



"And mine," said the Other Boy, as the old 
gentleman began to write in his note book, "mine 
is John H Chatford." 

Chapter VII. 

THE OTHER BOY'S STORY. 

" You have n't told me yet," said George, as he 
walked back with his friend to their seat in the 
bow, "what you are going to New York for. You 
said it was a strange business." 

"That's the reason; it's so very strange I'm 
almost afraid to speak of it ! But it 's about time 
for us to begin to be frank with each other, — don't 
you think so ? if we are to be fast friends/' 

"Certainly!" said George, who had not yet, 
however, said a word to his new acquaintance 
about the poems he had written, or his secret liter- 
ary hopes. There are boys — and men tod — who, 
in almost the first hour of their intercourse with 
you, will tell you of everything they have done, 
and of all they propose to do, with no more reserve 
than a cackling fowl. George, on the other hand, 
was quite too shy of making confidants, being 
genuinely modest and self-contained, and too little 
of an egotist to imagine everybody else interested 
in his schemes. But he was beginning to think he 
would tell his friend something, and he longed to 
Jiear his story. 

"You noticed," said the Other Boy, "that I 
;gave my name as Chatford to the old gentleman, 
but that is not my real name. The H. stands for 
'Hazard, — Jack Hazard is the name I generally 
go by, but Mr. Chatford is the man I live with, 
and he is just like a father to me, and as I never 
knew any other father, I 've lately taken his name." 

" You said you were a driver on the canal 
once." 

"Yes; the canal is almost the first thing I can 
remember. I 've some recollection of a woman 
who called herself my mother ; her name was 
Hazard ; she married old Captain Jack Berrick, 
who ran a scow, and who made a driver of me as 
soon as I was big enough to toddle on the tow- 
path and carry a whip. You can imagine what 
.sort of a bringing-up I had ! No schooling to 
speak of, — the worst sort of companions, — dirt and 
rags and profanity ! " 

" You perfectly astonish me ! " said George. 

" Mother Hazard died in the meanwhile, and 
.Captain Jack had taken another woman in her 
place. Molly Berrick was a good-hearted creature 
;nough, and many a time she took my part against 
Did Jack, who used to beat me when he was drunk. 
But she was a little too fond of the brown jug her- 
self, — one of those low, ignorant women you 
scarcely meet with anywhere except on the canal." 



'" How did you ever get away from such 
people ? " 

" I ran away. Old Jack knocked me down and 
threw me overboard one evening, and I crept out 
on the shore into some bushes, and then cut for 
my life. After some curious adventures I found a 
home with the Chatfords, — just the best people that 
ever lived, — at Peach Hill Farm. A niece of theirs, 
Miss Felton, now Mrs. Percy Lanman, kept the dis- 
trict school, and gave me private lessons, and cor- 
rectedmybad language, andencouraged me in every 
way to improve my mind and my manners. I can 
never tell you how much I owe to her and my 
other good friends," added Jack, in a faltering 
voice. " Then I went to school the next winter to 
the man she afterwards married, — a fine teacher 
and a splendid fellow ! Besides, I 've been a good 
deal with her brother, Forrest Felton, who is a 
surveyor and a music teacher, and I 've learned 
ever so many things of him, and from the books he 
has lent me. Then again, last winter we had a 
good teacher, and I 've read and studied at home 
at odd spells." 

"How did you get your money?" George in- 
quired. 

"In various ways. In the first place I took a 
sugar-bush with Moses Chatford, and we made a 
little out of that. Then we took some land to work, 
and last year raised a crop of wheat. Then I had 
a horse. It 's curious how I came by him. I 'II 
tell you all about it some time, and any number of 
scrapes I 've been in, and about my dog Lion, and 
the 'Lcctrical 'Lixir man, and the Pipkins, — the 
funniest couple, — and Phin Chatford, and Byron' 
Dinks and his school, and his old uncle Peternot, 
and the treasure the old man and I had a fight 
over, and Constable Sellick, and how I got away 
from him by swimming through a culvert under 
the canal, and plenty of other things that would 
make a pretty thick book if they were all put into 
a story.* But I'm telling you now about this 
journey." 

"And how you raised the money for it," said 
George, who, though a couple of years older, had 
yet been able to save less than Jack, and who won- 
dered how any farm-boy could become possessed of 
so much. 

" You see," replied Jack, " Deacon Chatford has 
been very liberal with us boys. He believes that 
is the right way to encourage us. He finds we do 
twice as much work, and like it ever so much 
better, and care less about spending our money 
foolishly, when we have an interest in what we 're 
doing." 

* For a full accoun t of these adventures, see the preceding stories 
of this series, 'Jack Hazard and his Fortunes,'' 'A Chance for 
Himself," and "Doing His Best."— J. T. T. 



FAST FRIENDS. 



[February 



- 



" And you like farming ? " said George, wonder- 
ingly. 

'"Better than I like anything, except surveying." 
"I hate farming!" exclaimed the young poet, 
with a look of intense disgust. 

" May be that 's partly owing to the way you 've 
been put to it. Besides," said Jack, "I don't 
believe all boys have a natural liking for the same 
thing. I was made for a stirring out-door life ; I 
like to see work going on, and to have something 
to say about it. I 'd like well enough to be a farmer 
all my days ; but I 'd like better still to be a civil 
engineer, or something of that kind. 
You, I fancy now, have a turn for 
something else. What do you take 
to?" 

"I'll tell you some time, perhaps," 
said George, with a blush. " But let 's 
have your story now." 

" Well, when I saw that I was going 
to travel, — you see, I could n't very well 
help myself, such a strange thing had 
happened, — I just counted up my sav- 
ings, and found that out of my sugar- 
money, and my wheat-money, and what 
Forrest Felton had paid me for helping 
him survey land, I had salted down, as 
they say, only about twenty-six dollars; 
for I buy my own books and clothes 
now. you know. That could n't be 
depended on, of course, for such a 
journey as I might have to make ; it 
would n't much more than take me to 
New York and back. So I went to 
Mr. Chatford, and borrowed all the 
money he could spare, — twenty-five 
dollars, — on pretty good security. He 
keeps my horse. He 's one of the kindest men to 
his dumb beasts, and I am sure Snowfoot wil 
have good care. Then there is my winter wheat, 
— for Moses and I have a crop growing, did I tell 
you? And now," added Jack, "to think of all 
my own money, and what I had borrowed " — he 
clenched his hand and struck the pile of rope a 
sudden blow. "Hanging is too good for such 
pickpockets. Common thieving is bad enough, 
anyway ; but to have a man take advantage of 
your good impulses, and steal your purse while 
you are doing an act of humanity. — or suppose 

you are " 

Jack almost choked with a sense of the wrong, 
then he went on, more calmly: "The purse was 
one Mrs. Lanman knit and gave me before she was 
married. I had it stolen from me once before, but 
got it again ; I '11 tell you about it some time. But 
there's no chance of my ever seeing it again, now ! " 
"You don't know about that; stranger things 



have happened," said George, who seemed to take 
this misfortune more calmly than Jack, now that 
the first excitement was over. 

" Well," said Jack, " the money is gone, — yours 
as well as mine, — and we shall be in New York this 
evening, and to-morrow is Sunday! — have you 
thought of that ? — and if we don't hit upon some 
way of raising the wind, we shall have to camp 
' down at night in a coal shed, or creep into an old 
hogshead or dry-goods box ; — that won't be so hard 
for me as for you ; I 've done it before. But how 
about something to eat? Nevermind," Jack ad 



r 
I* 




ded, seeing that 

he had brought a 

deeply anxious 

and gloomy look 

into his friend's 

face; " I 'vebeen 

in worse scrapes, 

and I bet we '11 find some way out of this. We 've 

all day to think of it. And— I started to tell you 

what I 'm going to New York for. Somehow, I 

can't make up my mind to that!" 

" Here 's Hudson, where we were going to be put 
off!" exclaimed George. 

The boys watched the steamboat's approach to 
the landing, and wondered how it would really have 
seemed to be put ashore there, and what they 
would have done ; then Jack continued his story. 

" It was last Saturday — only a week ago to-day, 
though it seems months, I 've lived such a life since 
then !— I was coming home from the Basin, walk- 



FAST FRIENDS. 



1S9 



I ng down the canal, on the heel-path, when I over- 
look an old scow, moving scarcely faster than the 
i :urrent. Now, I take a pretty lively interest in 
licows; and I 'm always looking to see if my old 
; ;quare-toed friend is among them. You see, a fel- 
1 ow can't help a sort of sneaking feeling for what 
, vas once his home, even though it 's nothing but 
' : in old floating hovel on the canal. ' Be it ever so 
lumble,' as the song says, — and so forth. Well, 
phis did n't happen to be Berrick's boat ; but as I 
vas watching it, I thought I saw, at the stern, a 
j'ace I knew — a haggard woman's face, without a 
Donnet. I was n't quite certain ; but I lifted my 
;ap and bowed. At that she stared. 
" ' Jack Hazard,' says she, ' is that you ? ' 
"'Yes, Molly!' I said. 'I'm Jack. How are 
fou, and what 's the news ? ' 

" ' No good news for me, since you left us, Jack ! ' 
;ays she. 

'• 'You 've swapped boats,' I said. 'Where 's 
laptain Jack ? ' 

" ' Berrick has left the canal, and he 's left me ! ' 
;ays she. ' Jack, come aboard here ! I want to 
see ye, and tell ye something — something I never 
;ould tell ye as long as I was with old Jack.' 

" That excited me a little ; for I felt something 
inusual was coming. I had always known that 
Berrick and Molly kept a secret from me, and had 
:hought a thousand times since I left them that I 
vould give anything to know what it was. 

" I was for getting aboard at once, but the scow 
was loaded, and could n't get over to the heel-path, 
and I had to run down a quarter of a mile to a 
oridge, and then, crossing over, go up and meet 
her on the other side. She laid up, and I jumped 
an, and shook hands with Molly, and asked what 
she had to tell me. 

" ' O, Jack !' says she, ' I 'm sick, and I sha'n't 
be able to make many trips more, unless I get bet- 
ter ; and I 'm so glad I 've seen you ; for it 's 
troubled me that I 've had a secret which you ought 
to know. Berrick kept it from you, for fear of los- 
ing his control of you ; and after you got free of 
iliim, he said, " What 's the use of telling the boy 
iQOw ? it '11 do no good ; and he may come back 
:o us yet." But I knew you would n't come 
Dack.' 

" Just then, she was taken with a fit of coughing, 
ind had to go down to the cabin for some medicine. 
3he beckoned to me to follow her. I went down, and 
— I never could begin to tell you how I felt, waiting 
"or her to stop coughing and tell me the secret ! 
Vou see, I knew it was something about myself. I 
:old her so. 

"'Yes, Jack,' says she, as soon as she could 
speak ; ' that other woman — Berrick's other wife 

(To be 1 



— the widder Hazard, that was — she was n't your 
own mother, Jack ! ' 

" That was just what I thought was coming ; for, 
you know, I had more than half suspected as much 
for a long time, — I can hardly tell why. Things 
seem to be in the air sometimes, and you breathe 
them in. But to hear Molly speak out what I had 
only felt might be gave me an awful shock. 

" ' Then, who was my mother ? ' I said. 

" ' That I don't know,' says she. ' Berrick don't 
know. The widder Hazard picked you up in the 
streets of New York. She did n't steal you — she 
was n't the sort of woman to do that,' says Molly; 
' she was good-hearted, but without much pru- 
dence or conscience, I guess. You was crying in 
the streets — a little fellow three or four years old — 
a lost child. She took you, and was going to give 
you to a policeman, but she did n't meet one all 
the way down the street from Broadway to the 
North River. She was cook on board a lake boat 
that was going up the river that night. She was a 
motherly creature, and you cried yourself to sleep 
in her bosom, and as she had lately lost a little 
boy, she fell in love with you.' 

' ' ' But did n't she try to find my parents ? ' I said. 

" ' I 'm afraid she did n't do what she ought to 
have done,' says Molly. ' That night the boat was 
taken in tow by a steamer, and came up the river, 
and then made her trip on the canal and around 
the lakes, and it was weeks before she ever got back 
to New York again ; and when she did, Ma 'am 
Hazard was n't with her. She had fallen in with 
Berrick and married him. You kept her name of 
Hazard, but you was called Jack after the old man.' 

" I asked how Molly knew all this, for if it was 
from Berrick I would n't believe a word of it, he 's 
such a liar. But she said she had the story from 
Mother Hazard herself. 

" ' I was with her the spring she died, when you 
was about seven,' says she, ' and she gave you into 
my charge, and told me to find your parents. But 
that Captain Jack never would let me do. He 
took us both on the scow that summer, and the 
very next summer you began to drive the team.' 

" She could n't tell where Berrick was ; she only 
knew that he sold the scow last winter, and went 
down to New York. Mother Hazard told her I 
had yellow curls, and wore a pink frock, white 
stockings, and red morocco shoes, when she picked 
me up, and that was all I could learn. You can 
imagine how excited I was ! 

" And this," said Jack, " is what has sent me ofT 
to New York. Mr. Chatford said all he could to 
dissuade me, and finally lent me the money, for he 
saw I was bound to make the journey. I am going 
to hunt up my relations." 

ontinucd.) 



190 



MII.D FARMER JONES AND THE NAUGHTY BOY. [Febri-arv 



MILD FARMER JONES AND THE NAUGHTY BOY. 

By Theophilus Higginbotham. 



Cried Farmer Jones, "What's this I see? 
Come down from out my hickory tree ! 
Come down, my boy, I think you might ; 
To steal is neither wise nor right. 

"You wont, you naughty boy? Oh, fie! 
You dare to tell me mind my eye ? 
Come down this instant! What d' you say? 
'Takes two to make a bargain,' — eh?" 

Now, Farmer Jones, as mild a man 
As any, since the world began, 
Resolves on action fierce an . bold, — 
Although it makes his blood run cold. 

His faithful clog has mounted guard ; 
There is an axe in yonder yard, — 
" Now, though the heavens quake and fall, 
My strokes shall bring down tree and all ! " 

Fast come the blows, but vain the plot ; 
The tree may yield, the boy will not. 
His pelting nuts the farmer blind ; 
Yet still the axe its cleft doth find. 

Ah ! who is this doth cry " Hold up ! 
I say, tie fast that yelping pup ; 
Do the square thing by me, and see 
If I don't leave your hickory tree ? " 

'T is done. The faithful dog is tied, 
The shining axe is turned aside. 
"No hoaxing, now?" the youth doth cry — 
And Farmer Jones replies, "Not I." 

Now, mingling with the song of bird, 
A sound of tearing clothes is heard* 
And scraping boots ; and, with a bound, 
That naughty boy stands on the ground. 

Said Jones, " You 're sorry now, I see, 
For knocking nuts from off my tree !" 
" Well, yes ; if you '11 just take the pup, 
And let a fellow pick 'em up." 

"All right! my boy," cried Farmer Jones, 
Who felt delighted in his bones; 
For never since the world began 
Was seen so very mild a man. 



i8 7 4-] 



MILD FARMER JONES AND THE NAUGHTY BOY. 



1 9 I 




"Come down from out my hickory tree.' 1 ''You won't, you naughty boy I oh fie!" His faithful dog has mounted guard. 




" My str:kes shall bring down tree and all 



The tree may yield, the boy will not, " I say, tie fast that yelping pup." 




"No hoaxing, now 7 " the youth doth cry. Said Jones, "You 're sorry now, I see." "All right, my boy," cried Farmer Jones, 



192 



grandfather's story, 



1 Febrcta:;] 




GRANDFATHER'S STORY. 



The story lasted so long that the sun looked in 
through the windows to say good-by ! sending the 
shadows to take his place. He would have liked to 
stay and hear the rest of the story, but some people 
over on the other side of the world needed to be 
waked up ; and he was the only one who could do 
it. Shadows have n't bright faces like the sun ; so 
we don't like quite so well to have them about us; 
but neither Grandpa nor Willie knew that they had 
changed company. The story was about Grandpa, 



when he was a little boy. That was such a great? 
while ago that it has made a very long story. Willie 
listened at first, and thought it very nice, until the; | 
little fringed curtains dropped over his blue eyes„ 4 
and Willie was dreaming — dreaming that he hadi i 
grown to be a man, and had a store full of trumpets 
and hobby-horses. Grandpa was dreaming too,. S 
although he was awake, — dreaming of the time when | 
he was a little boy. So, you see, the boy dreamed!^ 
of the man, and the man dreamed of the boy.. 



i8 7 4-J 



HOW THE HEAVENS FELL 



r 93 



HOW THE HEAVENS FELL. 

By Rossiter Johnson. 



The golden age of boys' dramatic "Exhibitions" 
was past before I became old enough to take part 
in those fascinating entertainments. But my elder 
brother was one of the stars of our stage, and I 
have reason to remember vividly the last exhibition 
in which he was an actor. It took place the night 
before he left home for college. John Barnard, 
who was also going to college had part in it. 



of a military uniform. There was also a small tent, 
and we caught sight of a shepherd's crook and a 
heavy chain with an iron ball attached to it. 

These revelations intensified the interest which 
had already been excited by the talk among the 
boys. It had been rumored that the principal feat- 
ure of the exhibition would be a drama, acted in 
costume, and that in one of the scenes occurred a 




Fred Barnard and I were very deeply interested, terrific combat, to be fought with real swords, ac- 
Ve watched all the preparations, and anticipated a cording to the laws of fence. What was the subject 



wonderful exhibition. The performers enlarged the 
ilatform, to make a sufficient stage; they hung 
liome curtains to serve for scenery; they carried in 
oree or four swords (real swords) and two horse- 
listols ; they brought several large bundles done 
p in paper, and, where one of the papers was 
Token, we saw the brass buttons and scarlet facing 
VOL. I.— 13. 



of the drama, or its plot, or its moral, we neither 
knew nor cared ; but we determined to see the fight. 

Very early in the evening we were at the school- 
house, and we glided in with a" hush of awe, pulled 
off our caps, and quietly took the front seat. No 
one else had yet arrived. We amused ourselves 
by studying the stage arrangements and the great 



194 



HOW THE HEAVENS FELL. 



[February 



chandelier that hung'from the centre of the ceiling, 
with carved wooden fishes and serpents all over it, 
the candles being stuck in the serpents' mouths. 
The room was carefully swept and dusted, and extra 
seats had been brought in to accommodate the ex- 
pected crowd. 

After a while, one of the larger boys came in 
from another room, with a candle in his hand, and 
began to light up. We watched him with deep 
interest, and would have been glad to help him. 
When he arrived at the place where we were sitting, 
he stopped before us, and delivered this cruel sen- 
tence: "You small boys will have to get out of 
this, until the ladies come. After they are seated, 
then you may come in." 

This piece of unnecessary gallantry fell like a 
millstone upon our hearts. Knowing too well how 
small would be the chance of getting any place 
where we could see the stage, after the ladies (and 
the gentlemen accompanying them) were all seated, 
we took our caps, and sorrowfully obeyed the order. 

But "Hope springs eternal in the human breast." . 
Fred and I felt sure that somehow we should yet gain 
admission and witness the tragedy. We sat down 
on the steps, and watched the people, who soon 
began to arrive. 

First, old Mrs. Whipple and her little grand- 
daughter. We wondered why that old woman, 
who was nearly blind and quite deaf, should want 
to be at the performance. 

"Yes, and that girl," said Fred, — "what's the 
good of exhibitions to girls? They can never take 
a part in 'em — only to read a composition, may be;" 
and his tone implied that reading compositions was 
very tame business, compared with taking part in a 
terrific stage combat, in soldier clothes, with real 
swords. 

Next came old Mr. Pendergast, walking slowly 
and leaning on his stout cane with the buck-horn 
handle. He had been a soldier of the Revolution; 
and as we imagined he would delight in witnessing 
the enactment of bloody scenes, such as he had 
passed through in his youth, and would moreover 
be the best critic present of the correctness of the 
performance, we readily admitted kis right to a 
front seat. 

Then came two young ladies. But when they 
looked in at the door, and saw how few had preced- 
ed them, they went away again. We thought they 
did n't appreciate their privileges. 

Then came a boy carrying a bucket of water, to 
be used in washing the paint from the faces of the 
actors, after the tragedy was over. We were anx- 
ious to help him ; but he would not allow us to do it — 
would not even let us lay a hand on the bucket and 
walk in beside him ! We considered that a mean- 
ness unparalleled. 



The minister and his wife came next; and thei 
people began to arrive so rapidly that we could no 
count them or keep track of them. A good manv 
of the fellows of our school were among them, bu v 
they were dressed up and all had ladies with them. 

When, at last, we ventured in, every seat was 
occupied, and many men were standing in the aisle; 
and about the door. It was hopeless for us. Wa 
had seen the backs of Sunday coats often enough, 
and did not care to spend that evening in acquiring 
a minute knowledge of them. We turned away, 
reluctant to give up our last hope of seeing tht 
terrific combat, yet hardly knowing what to do. 
But as we turned, Fred's eye caught sight of a 
small scuttle-hole in the ceiling directly over the 
stage. 

"Oh, why didn't we think," said he, " to get 
into the attic before the exhibition commenced? 
We could see it all through the scuttle ! " We 
knew all about that attic. A light ladder, which 
generally stood in one corner of the school- 
room, was used for ascending to it ; and the lum- 
ber, of which the stag: extension was built, was 
kept up there, as well as the curtains and other 
fixtures, that were used only on special occasions. 
We had once or twice been permitted to go to the 
top of the ladder and take a peep into it. 

" Is n't there some way we could get there now ? " 
said I. 

Fred thought awhile. "If we could climb the 
lightning-rod," said he, " perhaps we. could get the 
scuttle in the roof open, and then we'd be all 
right." 

" Let's try ! " said I, with a glimmer of hope. 
We ran around to where the rod reached the' 
ground. He "boosted" me, and I boosted him in 
turn, and we spat on our hands and rubbed sand 
on our shoes ; but it was of no use — neither of us 
could climb the rod any farther than he was 
boosted. 

" Can't we get a ladder? " said I, as we looked at 
the rod despairingly, and wished the spikes and 
glass knobs were nearer together. 

At the same time, our anxiety and curiosity were 
intensified by the sound of laughter and applause 
that came from the inside, as John Orton spoke his 
comic declamation. 

Fred thought perhaps Mr. Crouch, who lived 
next door to the school-house, had a ladder, as he 
was a carpenter. We went into his yard and 
looked about. There, sure enough, under a long, 
low, open shed, we found a ladder hung upon two 
great pegs. 

We took it out, and with some difficulty got it 
over the fence into the school-yard. To raise it 
against the building was quite a task for us ; and 
once, when it almost got the better of us, it came 



HOW THE HEAVENS FELL. 



195 



as near as possible to crashing through one of the 
windows. When finally it was fairly raised, imag- 
ine our disgust at finding that it reached not quite 
to the roof! Then our souls sank to the very 
bottom of despair. But Fred found our last ex- 
pedient. 

"I'll tell you." said he, "if we had it on the 
wood-shed it would reach. " 

The wood-shed was a few feet distant from the 
vail of the school-house, and its roof sloped toward 
t. 

" But how can we get it there ? " said I. not very 
lopefully. 

" Put the ladder against the shed, and then go 
ip and pull it up after us." he answered, with 
growing confidence. 

We tried it. The first step was easy enough ; 
t was the second step which cost. Still, our recent 
experience had taught us something of the way to 
landle and manage a ladder : and we did succeed 
n pulling it upon the roof of the shed, keeping it 
learly perpendicular. When we let it go over 
.gainst the eave of the school-house, it went with 
. n unexpected jerk, that nearly threw Fred to the 
jround, and did throw one foot of the ladder off 
.he edge of the shed roof. This frightened us a 
ittle ; but we quickly adjusted it, and in another 
ninute were on the roof of the school-house. 

Luckily, we found the scuttle in the roof unfast- 
i ned ; for one of the boys had been up that day to put 
jgt the flag, and had not thought it necessary to 
listen the scuttle again until the flag should be 
aken down. A short stationary ladder led down 

om this scuttle to the floor of the attic — or rather 
,| the place where the floor ought to be, for there 
■•as only a single plank laid from the foot of this 
ldder to the scuttle in the ceiling of the school- 
Dom. Along this we crept cautiously, by the little 
.ght that came in through the roof. Softly we 
lised the trap-door and leaned it back against the 
.race. As we raised it, a current of hot air rushed 
p through the scuttle, and nearly suffocated us. 

But this was a very small draw-back. We had 
ained an unobstructed view of the exhibition at 
st ; there it was, all beneath us, and just in the 
.sry height of its glory. The grand drama, with 
le military uniforms and the real swords, was just 

1 its first act. 

. As only one at a time could comfortably kneel on 

ae end of the plank and get a fair view of the 

age, we took turns, each one looking down while 

ie other counted a hundred. 

At the end of one of Fred's turns, the drama had 

rived at a critical and intensely interesting point, 

id he was unwilling to give way for me. He 
1 anted to lengthen the turns to a count of two hun- 

ed ; but I would not agree. He offered me his 



long lead pencil if I would consent. It was a strong 
temptation : but just then, high tragedy had more 
attractions than plumbago, and I was firm in my 
refusal. 

" Then," said he, with an injured tone, " I'll see 
if I can't get a place for myself," and he crawled 
around to the other side of the scuttle, and kneeled 
on the narrow edge of the joist, looking down from 
that side, while I resumed the place on the plank. 

Nearly all the uniformed and titled gentlemen 
were on the stage, and there was a solemn tableau, 
when one of the actors cried (in a slow, heavy 
tone, raising his arm majestically) : " Let justice be 
done, though the heavens fall !" 

At that instant there was a tremendous crash, 
and a large section of plastering fell upon the heads 
of the astonished actors. When the cloud of dust 
rolled away, the spectators, looking up, saw a rag- 
ged mass of lath hanging down around a hole in 
the ceiling, and in the midst of it the feet and legs 
of a boy who seemed to be clinging to the joist with 
his hands, 

I tried to help Fred up ; but my strength and my 
foothold were unequal to the task. The^e was a 
great excitement and uproar below. " Get a lad- 
der," shouted several voices; but the ladder gener- 
ally used at that place had been removed from the 
room when it was swept and garnished for the ex- 
hibition and nobody seemed to know exactly where 
it was. 

Fred's brother John, a large, powerful, cool- 
headed young man. was one of those on the stage. 
As soon as he could rub the dust from his eyes he 
looked up, and remarked : ' ' Those feet look very 
much like Fred's." Then stepping immediately 
under the suspended boy. he called out: "Drop, 
Fred, I'll catch you !" 

Fred dropped at once ; indeed, by that time he 
was about ready to drop without an invitation. 

John caught him, set him down on his feet, took 
a good look at him. and then giving him a slap on 
the shoulder, said : " Now start for home !" 

Fred started. They made a little lane down the 
middle aisle, and passed him out through the 
throng. 

Meanwhile I retreated to the roof, intending to go 
down by the way I had come up. What was my 
consternation, on getting there, to find that the lad- 
der from the shed to the roof had been removed. It 
seems that when a ladder was called for, some one 
near the door had run out to look for one. Seeing 
that, he had immediately taken it down and carried 
it around to the front steps. As the trouble was 
over on his arrival, he just dropped it there. Then 
Mr. Crouch, thinking the exhibition was broken up, 
came out, recognized his ladder, and carried it home. 

So I sat in despair on the roof, feeling more 



196 



JINGLES. 



[Febri-ar\ 



isolated and despondent than Robinson Crusoe 
ever did. 

After a while I heard my name softly spoken by 
some one in the yard. It was Fred. I answered. 
"Old Crouch has lugged home his ladder," said 
he. " Can't you come down the lightning- 
rod ? " 

The rod made an ugly bend where it went over 
the cornice, and I was afraid to try. I knew I ' 
should fall off at that bend before I could cling 
around the rod, with my feet below it. I pointed 
out the difficulty to Fred. He made light of it ; 
but I told him I knew better. The views of such a 
thing above and below are very different. 



" Then," said he at last, " you'll have to jump t< 
the roof of the shed." 

It was a perilous leap for a boy of my size ; but 
saw that Fred was right. There was nothing els 
to be done. Jump I did, and landed safely on th 
shed, from which I readily clambered to the ground 

We started for home immediately. As to th 
exhibition, the master quelled the tumult, told th 
audience the play would be resumed in a few min 
utes, and then had the curtain drawn while th' 
broken plaster was swept up and carried away 
The gentlemen in uniform resumed their loft 
dialogue and flourished their swords once more. 

The heavens had fallen, and justice was done. 



JINGLES. 




I HAD a little Highlander, 
Who reached to my chin ; 

He was swift as an arrow, 
And neat as a pin. 



He ran on my errands, 
And sang me a song; 

Oh, he was as happy 
As summer is long ! 



Fire in the window ! flashes in the pane ! 
Fire on the roof-top ! blazing weather-vane ! 
Turn about, weather-vane ! Put the fire out! 
The sun's going down, sir, I haven't a doubt. 



WOULD n't it be funny — 

Would n't it, now — 
If the dog said " Moo-00 " 

And the cow said "Bow-wow?' 
If the cat sang and whistled, 

And the bird said "Mia-ow?" 
Would n't it be funny — 

Would n't it, now ? 



Oh where are all the good little girls — 

Where are they all to-day 
And where are all the good little boys ? 

Tell me, somebody, pray. 
Why, safe in their fathers' and mothers' hearts 

The girls are stowed away ; 
And wherever the girls are, look for the boys— 

Or so I've heard folks say. 



1874.J 



ONE OF THE WONDERS OF SCIENCE. 



197 



ONE OF THE WONDERS OF SCIENCE. 
By Augustus Holmes. 



As we were going over to the shooting-match in 

A , the other day, — Lew Thaxter, Lon Scott, 

and I, — Lew asked me what I considered the most 
wonderful thing in modern science. 

"That is hard to say," I replied; "but, cer- 
tainly, one of the most wonderful things is the fact 
that men have been able to measure the velocity of 
light." 

Lon asked what I meant by that. 

" For instance, we know that it takes a little 
more than eight minutes for a ray of light to travel 
from the sun to the earth. That is," I added, as 
Lon looked incredulous, — but he interrupted me 
with a snap of his fingers. 

"Yes, I know, — I 've heard as much before ; and 
I don't believe a word of it ! " 

" You don't believe in the achievements of sci- 
ence ? " cried Lew, in astonishment. 

" O yes, to a certain extent. But some things 
are absurd ! " And Lon laughed in a dogged way. 
" You don't even know what light is ! Some say 
it 's a substance, others that it 's only a vibration, or 
an undulation ; and now you pretend that it is 
known how fast it travels ! " 

" Precisely," I answered. " Eleven million miles 
a minute, in round numbers ; no matter about a 
few miles." 

" But, you see," said Lon, contemptuously, "it's 
ridiculous ! No doubt men of science imagine 
the rate of speed at which light moves, but it 's 
foolish for them to talk of fixing the figures. They 
imight as well say fifty or a hundred million miles a 
minute, as to stop at eleven millions. There 's 
no way of working such a problem ; there 's no 
sort of handle to it." 

"Well, perhaps not," I said. " But let us con- 
sider." We had now come within sight of the 
shooting-ground, and could see the smoke from the 
rifles a little before we heard the reports. "You 
won't deny, I suppose, that sound travels at a cer- 
tain rate, according to the medium it passes through, 
and that its velocity can be ascertained. Now 
watch and hark ! " 

"Yes," replied Lon, " I see the smoke from the 
guns, and hear the report a second or two later. " 

" A second and a-half," observed Lew, who stood 
watch in hand, — for we had halted on the brow of 
a hill. 

"JMow, I acknowledge," said Lon, " if we knew 
the distance from here to the shooting-match we 
could calculate the rate of speed at which sound 



travels ; — so many feet in a second and a-half. 
But here you have ground to stand on, and one 
thing to compare another by. But suppose we saw 
no smoke, and heard only the report, — then how 
could you know the length of time it takes the 
sound to reach us ? " 

"Wait, boys," I said, "and let us think of this. 
We will suppose that, along this very road, a string 
of boys, starting from a goal over there where the 
firing is, come running towards us. Every five 
minutes one starts; and, as they run at uniform 
rates of speed, every five minutes one passes us here, 
if we stand still." 

"That is plain enough," assented Lon. 

"But, suppose, after two or three have passed, 
with an interval of five minutes between them, we 
go to meet the fourth. He will pass us in a little 
less than five minutes from the time the last one 
came up, — will he not ? " 

"Of course," said Lon, "since he has less dis- 
tance to travel before he meets us than the first 
boys had." 

" That is evident. Now, suppose that, as soon 
as we have met the fourth, we turn and walk the 
other way. In five minutes the fifth will reach the 
spot where we met the fourth, but it will take him 
some time longer to come up with us, for in this 
case we are adding to the distance." 

" All this is easy as A, B, C," cried Lon. 

" Let 's bring your A, B, C into the calculation," 
I said, and drew a line along the dusty road with 
my cane. " Here, at C, is the goal the boys start 



A 



from. Here is a boy running. In the meanwhile 
we walk to and fro between A and B, two points 
situated a thousand feet apart. Now, we have 
agreed that the boy passes us sooner when we meet 
him at B than when he overtakes us at A. Sup- 
pose we find it is a minute sooner." 

"Then," exclaimed Lew, "we shall know that 
it takes him just a minute to run from B to A ; and 
that his speed is a thousand feet a minute." 

"I agree with you," said Lon, scratching his 
head, " though I must say it would be pretty good 
running." 

"If a boy cannot travel so fast, I think you will 
acknowledge that something else can." 

" A locomotive," suggested Lon. 

" Yes, or sound. Suppose the rifles over there, 



198 



ONE OF THE WONDERS OF SCIENCE. 



[February 



instead of firing irregularly as they do, should fire 
once every five seconds. Then every five seconds, 
by my watch, we should hear a report if we stood 
still; that is, a wave of sound, starting from the 
goal and traveling towards us through the air, 
would reach and pass us at stated intervals, just as 
the boy did. Now. suppose that, when we go to 
meet the sound at B. it reaches us a little less than 
a second sooner than when it overtakes us at A. 
Then we know that sound travels more than a 
thousand feet a second, as in fact it does." 

"Eleven hundred feet," said Lew. 

''This is all clear enough with regard to the boy 
and the wave of sound; but light," Lon objected, 
''is different. Instead of eleven hundred feet a 
second, you have eleven million miles — did you 
say? — a minute ! Suppose those rifles, as far off as 
you could see them, should make flashes once a 
minute, — light is so swift that the nicest watch and 
the best eyes in the world would detect no variation 
in the time, if you should go a thousand miles to 
meet the flash, or go back a thousand miles and be 
overtaken by it ! " 

" I agree with you." 

"Very well! and how," cried Lon, "are you 
going to tell when a ray of light leaves the 
sun ? " 

"I don't know any way of doing that," I said. 

" Then, what do you go by ? — where do you get 
your purchase on that problem ? " 

" That is the wonderful thing I am coming at," 
I replied, as we walked on; "for all the rest is 
simple enough. And the beautiful fact I will now 
describe is also simple enough, you will see, mar- 
velous as it is. You have heard of Galileo ? " 

" The great Italian astronomer," suggested Lew. 

" Before his time, you know, it was the common 
belief that the earth was the centre of the universe, 
and that the sun, moon, and stars all moved about 
it once in twenty-four hours, besides making other 
wonderful movements in the heavens. Copernicus, 
a German astronomer, had already explained the 
motions of the heavenly bodies, by showing that 
the moon alone revolved around the earth, and 
only once a month ; that the earth turned round 
on its axis once a day ; and that the earth and all 
the other planets revolved in greater periods of time 
about the sun. This system of astronomy — called 
the Copernican system — is so beautifully simple, 
compared with the old Ptolemaic system (so called 
after Ptolemy), that it is a wonder everybody did n't 
accept it. But the world likes old ways and old 
beliefs, and dislikes change. So only a few wise 
men. in that and the following age, thought any- 
thing at all of the Copernican theory. Among 
these was Galileo. Copernicus died in 1543, and 
Galileo was born in 1564. Because he taught the 



Copernican theory, which was supposed to be con 
trary to the Scriptures, and was certainly contrar 
to what the Church believed and taught, he wa 
persecuted and imprisoned, and nearly lost hi 
life." 

" But what has all this to do with the velocity 01 
light ? " Lon interposed. 

"You will see. I wanted to tell you something 
of Galileo before giving you the result of hi 
great discovery. About 1609 he heard of a Dutch 
man having made a tube which, when lookec 
through, had the remarkable power of making 
objects appear much nearer than they really were 
Perhaps he learned that it was by passing the raye 
of light through lenses that this strange result was 
produced. At all events, he at once set to work, 
experimenting with lenses, and arranging them in 
a tube, — which was nothing but an organ pipe, 
until he had at last constructed a telescope. It was 
a very clumsy and imperfect instrument ; but, after 
one or two more trials, he succeeded in making one 
which would magnify objects about thirty times. 
Imagine his joy on turning this towards the heavens 
and counting stars where never stars were seen 
before ! He made many discoveries, but the most 
wonderful of all was one that confirmed in a beauti- 
ful way the system of Copernicus. Looking at the 
planet Jupiter, he noticed that four small stars near it 
appeared to change their places night after night. 
All at once the thought struck him that they were 
not stars at all, but moons revolving around the 
planet as our moon revolves around the earth, and 
as the planets revolve around the sun. Such, in- 
deed, the) - proved to be. He made this discovery 
in January, 1610, and, greatly as it elated him, he 
kept it a secret for over two months, until, by the 
most careful observations, he had satisfied himself 
that there was no mistake about it. Then he an- 
nounced it, and was called a heretic and a fool for 
his pains by priests and would-be men of science, 
who refused even to take the trouble of looking 
through his magic tube and seeing what he saw. 

"Well, this turned out to be the most important 
astronomical discovery, probably, that was ever 
made. Besides confirming the Copernican theory, 
it led to other discoveries ; and one of these is the 
very thing we are talking about. 

" The nearest of Jupiter's moons is about two 
hundred and sixty thousand miles from the planet, 
or about twenty thousand miles farther than our 
own moon is from us. But the planet is so huge, 
being some fourteen hundred times larger than our 
earth, that the satellite — which revolves in a very 
regular orbit — is eclipsed at every revolution, that 
is, whenever the planet comes between it and the 
sun. The shadow of the planet, you understand, 
falls upon it, and it disappears to our eyes, like a 



I874.J 



A CHURNING SONG. 



199 



candle that dies in its socket, to be lighted again as 
soon as it passes out of the shadow. 

" Now, astronomers, you will concede, are able 
to calculate eclipses to a second." 

Lon said he supposed so. 

" Well, Galileo, and others after him, studied the 
eclipses of Jupiter's moons, and discovered, to their 
surprise, that there was something strangely irregu- 
lar about them. Often they took place earlier or 
later than they had predicted from previous obser- 
vations. At last it was found that the movement 
of the earth in her orbit had some mysterious con- 
nection with this irregularity ; but how that could 
be no one was able even to guess, until, in the year 
1675, Roemer, a Danish astronomer, solved the 
mystery. " 

" What was it ? " Lon was now eager to know. 

I stopped, and drew another little diagram in the 
dust. " We will call this circle the orbit in which 




the earth revolves about the sun. Jupiter is fifty 
times as far from the sun as the earth is; we will 
say, at C. We will draw an imaginary line from 
C directly across the orbit of the earth. Now, it 
was found that when the earth was moving from A 
to B, with Jupiter in this relative position, the 
eclipses of the planet's moons appeared to take 
place earlier by a few minutes than when the earth 
was moving from B to A." 

"Ah! I see it!" exclaimed Lew. " When an 



eclipse occurs, we can take note of the rays that 
come to us just before or just afterwards. They 
travel towards us, something like the boys you 
described, or the waves of sound ; and, though the 
earth moves in a circle, instead of a straight line, it 
actually meets the rays when it is traveling from A 
to B, and has to be overtaken by them when it is 
returning from B to A." 

"You have hit it," said I ; "and I think that now 
even Lon sees the handle by which the problem 
was taken hold of. In fact, it was found that the 
eclipses of Jupiter's moons invariably appeared to 
take place a little more than sixteen minutes earlier 
when the earth was near B than when she was on 
the opposite side of her orbit. What else could be 
inferred than that it took a ray of light a little more 
than sixteen minutes to travel from B to A ? But 
this is twice the distance from the earth'to the sun; 
hence we conclude that light travels from the sun 
to the earth — say ninety-one and a-half 
million miles — in half that time, or a little 
over eight minutes. 

" By making due allowance for the speed 
of light and the motion of the planets, 
astronomers have been able," I continued, 
"to construct exact tables of the eclipses 
of Jupiter's moons, which are of great 
use in finding the longitude of places on the earth. 
So you see this discover)- is one of practical value, 
as well as very wonderful in a merely scientific 
way. " 

Lon was by this time so nearly convinced that he 
acknowledged there might be "something in it; " 
while Lew had become so much interested in the 
subject that he begged I would write out our 
conversation for St. NICHOLAS. I have done so 
at his request. 



A CHURNING SONG. 
By Silas Dinsmore. 



Apron on and dash in hand. 
O'er the old churn here I stand:. — 

Cachug ! 
How the thick cream spurts and flies 
Now on shoes, and now in eyes ! — 

Cachug ! cachug ! 



See the golden specks appear ! 

And the churn rings sharp and clear,- 

Cachink ! 
Arms, that have to flag begun. 
Work on ; you will soon be done : — 

Cachink ! cachink ! 



Ah, how soon I tired get ! 
But the butter lingers yet : — 

Cachug ! 
Aching back and weary arm 
Quite rob churning of its charm ! — 

Cachug ! cachug ! 



Rich flakes cling to lid and dash ; 
Hear the thin milk's watery splash ! 

Calink ! 
Sweetest music to the ear, 
For it says the butter is here ! — 

Calink ! calink ! 



200 



THE MANATEE. 



[Februar 






THE MANATEE. 



By Harriet M. Miller. 



This is an interesting looking fellow-creature,-- Mamma Manatee finds her babies milk, instead of 

now is n't it? meat. And, besides, he is warm-blooded, while 

Whether you take a broadside view of him, — as fishes are cold-blooded ; and he breathes with lungs 

in the larger picture, — or see him face to face, — as while fishes perform that useful operation by means 

in the smaller one, — he is equally attractive. But of gills, 
wait ! — I have n't introduced him. He lives in the water, to be sure, swimming. 

My dear young friends, this is a picture of the about as easily as any fish there, by the help of that 




THE MANATEE 



Manatee ; and he is n't half so stupid as he looks. 
In fact, when you come to know about him, you 'II 
find that he has some lovely traits of character, and 
judging him by the old proverb, " Handsome is, 
that handsome does," we may yet prove that he is 
a beauty. 

" A droll^/r^//," did you say ? Now, there I 've 
caught you. He is n't a fish any more than you 
are, though he is shaped like one. He 's an animal, 
and belongs to the same family that you do — the 
Mammalia, called by that long name because 



broad, flat tail of his ; but the tail is used by slap- 
ping down in the water, while the tail of a fish, you 
know, always stands up vertically, and moves from 
side to side. 

He is droll for an animal, I must admit. He 
has no neck, to speak of; no ears, except two holes, 
so small that they do not show in the pictures ; no 
legs; no arms; almost no eyes — at least they are so 
small and so buried in the wrinkles, that you can 
hardly see them ; and no hair like other animals. 

Now, see what he has. That splendid broad 



l8 7 4-l 



THE MANATEE. 



20I 



tail of his, with the help of his swimming paws — as 
some naturalists call them — sends him through the 
water as fast as he wants to go ; he has no need of 
legs. As to the swimming paws them- 
selves, although they look like awkward 
things, nothing could be more useful to 
him. They are, in fact, hands, with skin 
between the fingers, and if you could 
shake hands with him you would feel the 
fingers. He gets his name, Manatee, 
from them, maims being the Latin 
for hand. They have a sort of nail, 
like finger-nails, as you can see in the 
picture ; and besides using them in 
swimming and in crawling up on 
the land, Mamma Manatee needs them 
for carrying her baby, which she does 
much as a human mamma carries 
hers. 

A comical little fellow the baby Mana- 
tee must be ! 

Although this curious animal has no warm coat of 
r ur like other animals, he has wonderfully thick skin, 
and a coat of fat under it. that is warmer than any 
: ur. But, best of all, he has a good disposition. 
He is fond of his fellows, always living in crowds ; 
xnd if one is hurt, all the rest try to help him. 
Nearly every mother, from the elephant down to 
:he smallest insect, is tender of her little ones, and 
vill fight for them till she is herself killed ; but these 
iffectionate creatures are just as fond of each other. 
The fathers protect the mothers, and the mothers 
protect the babies, and, in fact, they never desert 
:ach other in the greatest danger. 

Unfortunately for their own peace. Manatees 
lave another good thing — good meat on their 
rones ; and men hunt them to get it for their own 
lse. As I said, they always go in crowds, the 
athers ahead, the mothers behind, and the babies 
n the middle. When a harpoon is thrown into 
me of the party, all the rest crowd around and try 
o pull it out, or to bite off the rope that holds it. 
'"Jot one thinks of taking care of himself, nor of 
ighting the hunter, so the fisherman (if he can be 
tailed so) can secure as many as he chooses. — often 
ihe whole troupe. 

This creature — who, you see, is interesting, after 
ill, in spite of his stupid look and flabby ways — lives 
:>n the sea-shore, in a bay, or at the mouth of a 
iver, in a tropical country, especially in American 
vaters, and he often takes a journey up the rivers 
i long way from the sea. He is from fifteen to 
wenty feet long, and sometimes weighs three or 
our tons. 

The Manatee has another name — Sea Cow : and 
le feeds on grass and plants. Not only on those 



growing under water, but on land plants, to get 
which he crawls up on to the land. 

Still a third name has been given to the Mana- 




A PRETTY FRONT FACE. 



tee, more curious than either of the others. You 
have heard of Mermaids, and perhaps you have 
seen pictures of them, as sailors described them, — 
beautiful women as far as the waist, with long hair, 
falling all over their shoulders, and scaly fishes from 
the waist down. (There 's one in Webster's big 
dictionary.) But I think you'll laugh when I tell 
you that these big, dull-looking Manatees are all 
the mermaids that men ever saw. At least, Cuvier 
says so, and if he does n't know, I 'd like to know 
who does. However, when Mamma Manatee raises 
her head high out of the water, with her baby in 
her hands, she does look a little like a human 
mother ; and seen away off over the water, with the 
credulous eyes of sailors, it isn't, after all, so absurd 
as it seems to you when you look at the picture. 

This gentle creature can easily be tamed. In an 
old magazine, published more than a hundred years 
ago, there is an account of a tame Manatee, kept 
by the Governor of Nicaragua, in a lake on his es- 
tate. This good-natured creature would not only 
come to dinner when he was called, — crawling out 
of the water, and up to the house, — but he would 
allow people to ride on his back. As many as ten 
people, the old story says, would often mount him, 
and ride safely across the lake. 

How do you suppose they would have liked it if 
Mr. Manatee had chosen to dive just then ? 

You little people who live in New York can see 
one of these curious fellows any day. In fact, the' 
very one who sat for his picture for St. Nicholas, 
lives in a big tank in Central Park. His keeper 
kindly allowed the tank to be empty a while, so 
that the artist might get a fine view of him, — the 
Manatee, not the keeper. 



202 



HOW JAMIE HAD HIS OWN WAY. 



[Febeuak 



HOW JAMIE HAD HIS OWN WAY. 

By Mary N. Prescott. 



"Jamie," said Grandpa Scott, "don't go near 
the wharves this afternoon ; Mrs. Little's Sam fell 
overboard yesterday. " 

"But, Grandpa," objected Jamie, " it's Saturday 
afternoon ! " 

" I know it, sir; and that's just why I want you 
to stay about the house and grounds. I notice that 
Saturday afternoon 's the time all the children get 
into mischief. You can play hide and seek in' the 
orchard, or sail your brig in the duck pond, or go 
berrying in Rowley woods." 

" There's bears in the woods," said Jamie, "and 
the brig's being mended " 

" And they'll eat the gooseberries in the garden, 
and make themselves sick," said Grandma. 

"Well, there's plenty of play without running 
to the river after it," continued Grandpa. " I tell 
you, sir, I won't have you playing about the 
wharves and running such risks ! " 

Well, perhaps Jamie didn't mean to disobey ; 
but he walked into the orchard and shouted for 
Jack Brown and Nick Smith to come and join 
him. 

" They've gone down to Bachelor's wharf," said 
Brown's little sister, who sat rocking her rag doll 
on the doorstep. "There's a great big ship 
down there, that smells of tar and oranges. They 
would n't let girls go," she added. 

" My ! " sighed Jamie, " I'm glad I'm not a girl, 
— they're always in the way, of course. They're 
afraid of getting their feet wet, and their hands 
dirty. At Bachelor's wharf, did you say?" The 
big ship, with its inviting odors, having blotted 
Grandpa's commands altogether from his mind, 
just as the waves wash out whatever you trace on 
the sandy beach, he turned into the dusty street, leav- 
ing the pleasant orchard behind him, with the sun 
shine fleckling the green grass, as it fell through 
the apple boughs ; with the plum trees ripening a 
blooming harvest ; with a generous perfume of early 
apples in the air ; the quince bushes adding their 
invitation ; the white-heart cherries ready to fall 
into anybody's open mouth, — as the birds could 
have told him, — and the currant and gooseberry 
bushes fringing the orchard wall, while grape-vines 
sucked in sweetness and mellowness from the sun 
and atmosphere. Jamie loitered down the street, past 
the grocery and the dry-goods shops, looked in at 
the confectioner's, passed awhile at the fish-market, 
where they were bringing in fresh lobsters and 
silver-enameled mackerel, and great cuts of pink 



salmon were to be seen, garnished with heads < : 
cut lettuce. It was only a step from the fish-markt 
to Bachelor's wharf, where, true enough, a ship, a 
big as all out-doors, it seemed to Jamie, was ur 
loading. Jamie hung near it, admiringly, enjoyin 
the tarry smell, as if it were an odor from Araby ;- 
the mystery of entangled ropes, that was as goo 
as a Chinese puzzle ; wondering about the grea 
ocean over which the ship had sailed; enjoyin 
the browned sailors, who had perhaps seen a whal 
spouting, or an iceberg drifting down from th 
north, or the stormy petrels that never alight, th 
legend says, and are named for St. Peter, wh 
walked the water. The Azores and West Indie 
were like places dropped out of Fairyland into th 
sea, somewhere, to Jamie ; and London was th 
capital of Dreamland to him, as well as to som 
older folks ; the rest of the world across the wate 
was a sort of fogland, where griffins with gol 
manes might abound, and toads that saw thing 
through the lens of a jewel, where the days wer 
six months long, without any bed-time. It was de 
lightful to touch the ropes that had been coiled ii 
foreign places, and the sails that had hung idly ij 
the calm of tropical waters, — it was almost lik 
shaking hands with the people of other countries. 

But after Jamie had somewhat satisfied his curi, 
osity, which was always alert when a ship came in 
he strolled, like one who has the afternoon befon 
him, to a neighboring wharf, where Jack and Nicl I 
were trying to make out into the stream in a smal 
boat, which the wind repeatedly blew in shore, de, 
feating their attempts. " Oh, I can get her off,' 
shouted Jamie, fired with sudden nautical valor 
" you just wait till I get off my shoes and stock 
ings ! " 

" Bet ye ! " defied Nick Smith, " me and Jack'; 
been ter work this half hour ! " 

"So I do bet ye!" returned Jamie, whipping 
off his " dirt-treaders" and jacket, and hiding then 
in a cranny of a pile of boards near at hand, 
" You'll see what a sailor can do," and he jumpec 
into the boat and pushed off in spite of the wind. 
"Let's go ■down to Black Rocks and fish," said 
Jack. 

" All right ! We 're off for Black Rocks, then 
said Jamie, tacking; "I think the wind's rather 
cranky, though, boys ! " 

" Looks squally," said Nick, at the helm. " M> 
mother's got the sewing circle to supper and we're 
going to have strawberry short-cake. She won' 



'874-; 



HOW JAMIE HAD HIS OWN WAY. 



20' 



know where I am, till she wants me to run an 
jrrand." 

Just then something happened ; perhaps it was 
:he squall ; but Grandpa Scott, looking out of 
ais scuttle window up in town, through a spy- 
glass, to see if his schooner was coming in, saw, 
.nstead, a boat floating upside down on the river. 

" Mercy ! Grandma," said he, " I'm right glad I 
:old Jamie not to go near the water to-day ; there's 
somebody's boat bottom-side up, in the river ! " 

" Sakes alive!" cried Grandma; "it'll make 
somebody's mother's heart ache, to be sure ! Well, 
I'm thankful that Jamie's safe in the orchard, for 
ill the gooseberries." But we know that Jamie 
>as not safe in the orchard. When he came to the 
surface of the river after his plunge, Jack and Nick, 
laving managed to cling to the boat, were seated 
in the bottom of it, and drifting out to sea : Jamie 
nade a few strokes towards them, but finding that 
:he boat would be out to sea before he could reach 
.he river-mouth, supposing he could swim so far, 
'ie decided to make for the North Pier, as his only 
rope. But oh, dear ! what a long way it was to the 
!>Jorth Pier, though ! what if the cramp should 
1 ;atch him before he reached it ? He remembered 
' J :hat Captain Sails had once seen a shark in the 
'iver, — he wondered if Grandpa Scott was getting 
vorried about him, — if Mrs. Smith had saved a 
iliece of the strawberry short-cake for Nick, — how 
'soon they'd miss him, and send out for him, — if 
':hey'd drag the river with grappling irons. It really 
.vas not very far to the North Pier, but it seemed 
eagues, and Jamie's strength was ebbing when he 
•eached it, and thrust his hands through the cracks 
oetween the rough boarding, and clung like any 
larnacle, feeling almost safe. But no sooner was 
ie secure from immediate danger, than his dis- 
comforts began to torture him : the hot sun poured 
lown on his uncovered head, a nail in the pier had 
.corn his hand, and the salt water made it smart, 
Sis arms were beginning to feel queer and lifeless, 
—he called for help, but his voice was a sparrow's 
lipe. Then he waited and waited, and saw a mir- 
lge of the distant beach lifted against the sky, and 
vatched the birds that lighted an instant on the 
lier, and looking at him curiously, and heard 
:he music of some gunner's rifle down in the 
Jmarshes grow fainter and sweeter with the distance, 
' and horns from Elfland faintly blowing." 

But presently a new terror beset him — he could 
lot take another stroke, if he were to die, — but he 
aw the sunset burnishing in the west, his half- 
loliday drifting away from him, and the tide turn- 
ng in ! If only somebody would come for him : 
ome fisherman toiling in with his full nets, some 
;unner from the salt-marshes, some pleasure- 
>oat laden with song and laughter f He was hoarse 



with hallooing; it was wearing on to twilight, and 
the tide coming in, strong and steady. He heard 
the bells on shore inviting to evening prayer, — the 
noises about the wharves reached him like echoes 
from another world ; he wondered where Jack and 
Nick were, — if Grandma had gone to Mrs. Smith's 
tea-drinking ; he remembered how the sunshine 
seemed tangled among the orchard trees at home, 
that the plums were nearly ripe, that Master Brooks 
was going to give him a reward of merit, at school, 
next week. By this time there was a star twink- 
ling at him in a companionable way, from the sky, 
— but only his head was out of water; he tried to 
climb up the slippery sides of the pier, and came 
very near losing his hold ; once he thought that 
he heard the sound of oars, the faint tones of human 
voices, as in a dream ; then he lost them, and be- 
gan to fancy himself safe at home in bed, holding 
Grandma Scott's hand, and saying, "Our Father, 
who art in Heaven." The water gurgled about his 
ears and touched his lips, and the stars and the 
roseate twilight went out in darkness. 

Some sailors, belonging to a sand-droger that 
was taking in cargo at White Beach, had caught 
sight of a strange object clinging to the pier, had 
at first fancied it to be a seal or a mermaid, and 
had set forth to capture it, arriving just in the nick 
of time to save Jamie, who was verily at his last 
gasp. They carried him on board the droger, 
rubbed and dosed him into consciousness, dried 
his shirt and trowsers before a drift-wood fire on 
the beach, gave him a supper of clam chowder 
and ship-bread, and after he had rested, they row- 
ed him up to town and left him at the wharf. 

Jamie walked slowly homeward, wondering what 
reception he should meet ; all the clocks were 
clanging nine ; there were groups of men about 
the shops speaking of the day's accident. 

" Folks ain't no business ter let children out on 
the water alone," some one was saying. 

"Well, you see," broke in another, "Miss 
Smith, she hed the sewing circle ter her house, 
and a body can't manage other folkses affairs and 
their own ter wunst." "It'll go hard with Grandpa 
Scott," spoke a third; "that boy was the apple of 
his eye." 

"And a little tyke he was too," responded his 
neighbor: "I've heard his grandma say that she 
never felt easy till he was a-bed and asleep ! " 

" Well, he won't be troubling nobody no more," 
said the confectioner, at whose counter Jamie had 
been in the habit of spending his cents; " he was 
a great one for -ju-ju' paste; I wouldn't have 
minded throwing in a piece, if I'd knowed, " 

" He could bat a ball like time," said a small 
boy Jamie recognized as one with whom he had 
sometimes shared his jujube paste; " and he wasn't 



204 



CHANTICLEER. 



[February 



stingy, neither, and didn't get mad if you spelt 
above him." Jamie walked on to his grandfather's, 
where the lamps were all lighted, and they had for- 
gotten to draw the curtains ; he stole in softly and 
looked in at the doorway. Grandpa Scott was 
walking the room as fast as his old legs could carry 
him, and wringing his hands ; Grandma was in the 
big arm-chair, with her face hidden in her hands 
and the tears dropping through the fingers, while 
Mrs. Smith stood near, smoothing her hair and 
offering the smelling-salts, and saying, " Don't take 
on so, now don't, Miss Scott, — it ain't none of 
your fault, nobody'll blame you — it's all for the best. " 



" There wa'n't nobody ter blame but the squall,' 
said Jack and Nick in chorus, from the back 
ground, where Jamie had not seen them ; "us twt 
stuck to the boat, you see," continued Nick, " wher 
it was bottom-side up, and nobody picked us off 
till we was most out to sea. and then when we be 
gan to think of Jim, he wasn't nowhere. Hurrah ! ' 
changing his tune without warning, " I say. 
Hi' Spy ! " 

And Jamie's arms were around Grandmr 
Scott's neck, and everybody in the room wa; 
in tears again, and Grandpa Scott was on hi 
knees. 



CHANTICLEER. 

By Celia Thaxter. 

I WAKE ! I feel the day is near ; 

I hear the red cock crowing ! 
He cries " 'T is dawn ! " How sweet and clear 
His cheerful call comes to my ear, 

While lighc is slowly growing. 

The white snow gathers, flake on flake ; 

I hear the red cock crowing ! 
Is anybody else awake 
To see the winter morning break. 

While thick and fast 't is snowing ? 

I think the world is all asleep ; 

I hear the red cock crowirig ! 
Out of the frosty pane I peep ; 
The drifts are piled so wide and deep, 

And wild the wind is blowing ! 



Nothing I see has shape or form : 

I hear the red cock crowing ! 
But that dear voice comes through the storm 
To greet me in my nest so warm, 

As if the sky were glowing ! 

A happy little child, I lie 

And hear the red cock crowing. 
The day is dark. I wonder why 
His voice rings out so brave and high, 
With gladness overflowing. 



5k 1874- ] 



A MOOSE HUNT IN THE MAINE WOODS. 



205 




WHAT MAY HAPPEN WHEN LITTLE BOYS PLAY LEAP-FROG TOO MUCH. 



A MOOSE HUNT IN THE MAINE WOODS. 
By C. A. Stephens. 



So many tourists, young and old, have come 
down into the Maine lake region the past summer 
to camp out in the country of the whispering pine, 
and hunt that noble game, the moose, that I deem 
it not unlikely that many of our young folks, especi- 
ally our boys, would enjoy a moose hunt, — even on 
paper. A prominent lumber-merchant of the Pine 
Tree State has kindly furnished me with one of his 
youthful exploits in this line, which I have at- 
tempted to write out. 

There were four of us, and we were a rather 
queer party. There was old Ben Murch, a lum- 
berman and hunter well known in that region ; a 
young Penobscot Indian named Lewis, or. as he 
was more commonly called, " Lewey ;" a young 
Boston chap named Larkin, but whom we had nick- 
named " Larks," and myself. We had gone up 
from Bangor to the head of Chesuncook Lake, then 
as now a sort of supply-depot for the logging- 
camps. 

When I mention that one of our party was an 
Indian, some may perhaps think that he was a sav- 
age, — one of the blanketed, tomahawking sort. 
Quite the contrary. Lewey was a very sensible, 
matter-of-fact young man ; dressed like a Christian, 



and, saving a tendency to extreme brevity, spoke 
very fair. English. Indeed, the fellow was quite a 
humorist in a certain, dry, terse way of his own, 
and very tolerable company of an evening. Murch 
and he frequently hunted together, selling the veni- 
son at the neighboring logging-camps. And on 
the evening preceding the first day of our hunt, 
February 3, Lewey had come down to the head 
from his wigwam, or winter camp, on the Cusa- 
bexis. One versed in woodcraft might well wonder 
how two experienced hunters should happen to take 
a couple of boys with them on a moose hunt ! 
Well, I suspect that Larks used undue — possibly 
pecuniary — influence with them. Such things are 
sometimes done. 

Day broke clear and frosty. We were off by 
sunrise — on snow-shoes. The snow was crisp. 
And as the early sun-rays fell in through the bare 
tree-tops the whole air resounded with the sharp 
snapping of the frozen wood, relaxed by the warmth. 
An hour's walk took us across the lowlands between 
the supply-depot and the river (the West Branch 
of the Penobscot), which enters the lake at some 
distance above. Crossing the river on the ice a 
little below Pine Stream Falls, — so near that we 



206 



A MOOSE HUNT IN THE MAINE WOODS. 



( February, 



could hear the plunging waters, — we began to as- 
cend the ridgy slopes which lead up among the 
highlands in Township No. V, in Range XIV. 

"Now, boys," said Ben, stopping to tighten the 
strings of his snow-shoes, " the less ye say and the 
fewer twigs ye snap the better ; for, unless I 'm 
much mistaken," pointing to the cropped branches 
of a yellow birch, "we shall come upon a yard 
within a couple of hours. So keep whist. Mind 
the going. Don't tread on the dry brush. You 
youngsters may as well keep a few rods behind. 
And whenever I raise my hand — so — stop, both of 
you, stock-still, — and don't move till I tell ye." 

Thus instructed we moved cautiously on again. 

" What does the old fellow mean by a ' yard? ' " 
whispered Larks, as we picked our way along be- 
hind. And as some others may perchance need a 
word in explanation, we will try to give it. 

Suppose, as is often the case, that late in the fall, 
just as the snows are coming, a herd of moose — a 
dozen say, though generally not more than three 
or four — are browsing on the bank of a river or 
along the shore of a pond or lake. A snow-storm 
comes on, and there falls a foot, perhaps. Natu- 
rally enough, the moose don't go over as much 
ground next day after their browse as if the ground 
were bare. And very likely, too, since it is natural 
for all creatures to follow beaten paths, — nor are 
human beings exceptions, — very likely, I say, that 
nightfall will find them retracing their steps to the 
place whence they started in the morning. And 
thus they will remain for several days, not going 
over more than a mile or two of ground, unless 
disturbed by wolves or men. Then comes .another 
storm, with another foot of snow. This makes 
walking about still more laborious. And the moose, 
consulting their ease, go about still less. So they 
keep on, narrowing their feeding-ground after every 
storm, till, when the snow has become four and five 
or six feet deep, it is nothing unusual to find a herd 
of from three to a dozen snowed into a yard of from 
five to thirty acres, with deep beaten paths running 
through it in every direction, the twigs cropped 
and bark gnawed from all the trees. 

I believe this the more satisfactory explanation 
of a moose-yard, though many so-called naturalists 
will tell you that the moose select their yard before 
the snows come, — that they are in this matter 
"governed by instinct." All of which you may 
safely believe the moment they satisfactorily define 
that word, instinct. 

Now, if a hunter can steal up unobserved, or 
rather unheard, within rifle-shot of one of these 
yards, why, he stands a good chance of securing 
one of the herd, at least. But the difficulty is to 
approach unperceived. For there is no keener- 
eared animal under the sun than a moose. They 



will often hear or smell a man half a mile, and 
that, too, when there is no perceptible breeze. The i 
only chance of surprising a yard is when there 's a 
stiff hreeze from it ; and then it is a pretty ticklish 
job, and but rarely done. 

A little farther on we saw where a cluster of 
hazel-bushes had been bitten off; and soon a shrub- 
by pine with all its lower branches stripped of their 
tassels. These were indications of a yard not many 
miles off. The moose had been here ; but later 
snows had covered the track. 

We walked on with as little noise as possible. It 
was rather blind work, though ; for the thick mixed 
growth made it impossible to see more than six or 
eight rods ahead. Presently we came to a clump 
of moose-wood shrubs browsed off as before, with a 
faint trail under the more recent snows leading 
away to the left. Along this Lewey and Ben picked 
their way softly, followed at some distance by Larks 
and myself. 

We had gained the summit of a high ridge, and 
were now descending into the valley beyond. The 
shrubs along the trail had nearly all been cropped, 
— all save the spruce ; moose never touch spruce 
boughs. We followed this trail for half a mile, 
perhaps, when Lewey, who was considerably in ad- 
vance, suddenly stopped, — we saw him making 
signs and whispering to Ben, and stole gently up to 
them. Right in front were the fresh tracks of a 
moose, — huge hoof-prints stamped deep into the 
snow. 

"'St, boys!" whispered Ben. ""We're close 
upon 'em ! Stay here ; don't stir ! " 

Lewey and he worked slowly forward, drawing 
their heavy snow-shoes carefully after them. 
Watching breathlessly, we saw Lewey pause and 
cautiously raise the hammer of his rifle. It clicked 
faintly, despite his care. Instantly there was heard 
a hoarse snort, accompanied by a great crashing 
among the brush. 

"There they go!" shouted Ben. Lewey had 
sprung forward like a cat, — too late to get a shot, 
however. The moose were gone. We could hear 
them tearing along down the valley, and on coming 
to the yard — some twenty rods farther on — found 
it empty. 

"No help for it now," muttered Ben, gazing a 
little grimly at the gnawed saplings along the now 
deserted paths. "Nothing to do but chase them 
down. Think you can stand a three days' tramp, 
Larks ? " 

" Very long hunt," remarked Lewey. 

But Larks had great faith in his legs. 

Three distinct tracks on the farther side of the 
vard showed us where the moose had left it ; and 
tightening our straps, we shouldered our guns and 
started in pursuit. 



8 7 4-] 



A MOOSE HUNT IN THE MAINE WOODS. 



207 



" Don't you ever use hounds to hunt them with? " 
.arks inquired. 

"Not often," replied Ben. " Some do, but we 
.on't. We have better luck without dogs than 
/ith them. A moose is n't like a fox. A fox will 
un round and round from hill to hill; but a moose 
:eeps straight ahead. We 've found that our 
est way is to keep steady after them till they get 
ired enough to let us get up within shooting 
istance." 

Lewey then told us that he once followed one a 
irtnight before getting near enough to shoot him. 
iut when there is a crust upon five feet of snow, 
he moose, going through to the ground at every 
lunge, can't hold out over twenty-four hours, if 
illowed rapidly. 

All this time we were going forward as fast as we 
ould walk. For the first six or eight miles the 
roose seemed to have run at full speed, scattering 
le snow and clearing the brush with prodigious 
ounds. In some places they had thrown out with 
leir hoofs the old dried leaves, deep buried since 
utumn. 

About three o'clock in the afternoon we crossed 
le former path of a tornado, which in its terrific 
ourse through the forest had torn down nearly all 
le trees along a clearly defined belt, — only a few 
ads in width, but stretching away eqst and west as 
ir as we could see. The prostrate trunks lay piled 
cross each other in the wildest confusion. Over 
lese the moose had bounded in a manner almost 
lcredible ; running without the least apparent re- 
ard for the snow-buried logs, and making a bee- 
ne across the windfalls. One leap especially 
stonished us. Three large bass-woods had fallen 
l a rick, the topmost lying fully seven feet above 
re surface of the snow, which lay from four to five 
:et all about them. This formidable abattis one 
f the moose had cleared at a jump, landing among 
re logs nearly a rod beyond. 

The short February afternoon rapidly waned. A 
■ snow-bank " had risen in the south-west. 

"Another snow-storm by to-morrow," said Ben. 

It was growing dusk. Presently the forest light- 
lied ahead, and in a few minutes we came out on 

broad white expanse stretching away to the 
orthward. 

" Lake Cauquomgomac," remarked Lewey. 
1'hen, looking through his hands, "Yonder they 
o! " 

' Straining our eyes in the deepening twilight, we 
luld just make out some dark objects far out on 
le lake, one — two — three, yes, three of them, 
'hey were three or four miles from the shore, and 
laking directly towards a small island situated near 
le upper end of the lake. When chased, moose 
ill frequently run off to an island, or a high hill, 



which commands a good outlook of the country 
around. 

" They '11 haul up at that island to breathe." said 
Ben. " Spend the night there, like enough, if 
they don't catch sight of us on the lake." 

" Could n't we work up to them after dark? " I 
hazarded. 

"Not without first getting their consent," said 
Ben, laughing. Then, turning to Lewey, "What's 
to be done? " 

" Two of us stay here — two of us go round lake 
— above island," replied Lewey. "Head off 
moose. " • 

" And so scare them from the island and then 
shoot at them from an ambush ? " questioned Ben. 
Lewey nodded. 

" Not to-night, I hope," said Larks, upon whom 
our long day's tramp was beginning to tell. 

Ben turned to look at him. " No, not to-night, 
I guess," said he at length. Then to Lewey, 
" We '11 camp here, I reckon," with a nod of his 
head toward Larks and myself. Lewey assented, 
merely muttering, "No fire; not make fire on 
shore ; go back." 

Back we accordingly went to a little ravine in the 
woods, a number of rods from the lake. By this 
time it had grown very dark ; but collecting brush 
as best we could, and breaking off slivers and bark 
from an old hemlock trunk, we soon had a crack- 
ling blaze. 

A hunter's knapsack is not quite so ornamental 
as a soldier's, but handier, I think. It consists of a 
large, deep pocket in or rather on the back of his 
hunting frock. In these we had packed away. two 
days' rations of beef and corncake, and now wc 
proceeded, after taking off our snow-shoes and 
loosening our belts, to make a thorough dinner, 
moistening the same with snow-water melted in the 
palms of our hands. 

This over with, we broke off great armfuls of fir 
boughs, and spreading them on the snow, lay down 
with our feet to the fire — to sleep. How the flick- 
ering blaze lighted up that savage little glen, with 
its dark, wild trees, as we lay there looking up, 
with cold noses and colder fingers ! while from the 
lake came those fearful sounds, — said to precede a 
storm,— the moaning and roaring of the ice; a 
phenomenon common enough to frozen waters, yet 
always startling, and especially so by night. 

In spite of these sounds, wc fell asleep, — to shiver 
through a frigid delirium of chilly dreams and 
visions of gigantic moose. A pull at my coat- 
sleeve roused me ; it was Lewey. The fire had 
gone out ; all was dark. 

"Get up," said he in a whisper. " You go with 
me. No need to wake Larks. I've talked with 
Ben. You and I go round lake; head off moose." 



208 



A MOOSE HUNT IN THE MAINE WOODS. 



[February 



I understood, and scrambled up ; but I was as far as I was concerned. Lewey led ; it was aj 

covered with snow, and felt cold, soft touches in much as I could do to keep from bumping agains 

my face ; it was snowing heavily. Off in the east the tree trunks. But it gradually grew light. Wl 

the dim pallor of a stormy morning had begun to were skirting the lake, keeping back from thi 

show faintly. With numb fingers we tugged at shore. 






v\l 




CHASED BY A MOOSE. 



the frozen straps of our snow-shoes, then shoulder- After going on for several miles as it seemed to 

ing our guns, started northward. The light snow me, the mixed growth changed to a still heavier 

cracked and creaked under our feet, — dull and one of black spruce. Beneath the dark shaggy 

monotonous sounds, — as we plodded on, on, blindly tops all was quiet; but overhead the wind drove; 



S74-] 



A MOOSE HUNT IN THE MAINE WOODS. 



209 



and now and then the snowy gusts sifted down 
through the thick boughs. Out on the lake the 
storm howled. 

By nine o'clock we had got round to the northern 
end, or head of the lake, and could just discern, 
through the driving flakes, the outline of the island 
a mile below. If the moose had left it, they had 
probably come across to the woods at about this 
place. Still keeping in the forest, we examined 
the shore for nearly half a mile ; there were no 
tracks. It was fair to conclude that they were still 
below us, — at the island. Nothing now remained 
to us but to wait for a chance to shoot them. 

" Watch here," said Lewey, pointing to the up- 
turned root of an old windfall. " Hide here — 
make gun sure — put on new cap — aim straight." 

With this advice Lewey left me and went on 
iome dozen or fifteen rods, where he took his stand 
n a similar manner. Resting my gun through a 
:hink in the root, I began my vigils. An hour 
massed. The storm still raged fiercely. Ben was 
jiving us plenty of time. But, keeping my eyes 
ixed on the island, I waited for the earliest appear- 
mce of the moose. Suddenly the faint report of a 
jun came on the snow-laden blast ; Larks' rifle, I 
felt sure. And the next moment three dark objects 
larted out from the island and came straight to- 
wards us. How swiftly they approached, growing 
arger every moment, till the great unwieldy forms 
ivere close upon us ! Now for it ! 

Setting my teeth, I aimed at the foremost, — he 
vas now within fifty yards, — and fired ! Almost at 
he same instant another report rang out. The 
noose fell headlong into the snow. There was a 
rreat snorting and crashing through the brush ; 
he other two swept past me like the wind, and on 
nto the forest. The wounded moose, too, had 
pounded to his feet, and with a hideous whine he 
ame floundering heavily on. In my excitement I 
tad jumped up from my hiding-place, shouting 
.nd brandishing my gun. 

" Run ! Run for your life ! " shouted Lewey. 
' Get among spruces ! " The moose had already 
aught sight of me, and came rushing up the bank 



with a great gnashing and grinding of its teeth. 
No time for bravado ! I dropped my gun and ran 
— as fast as a fellow can on snow-shoes — back into 
the woods. A clump of low, dense spruces were 
growing near. I made for them, — the moose after, 
me, — and, diving in amid the thick, prickly 
branches, went down on my hands and knees and 
scrambled aside under the boughs, spider-like. The 
moose crushed into the thicket, snorting and thrash- 
ing about not ten feet from where I lay. 

"Lie flat!" yelled Lewey's voice from some- 
where outside. " Don't stir ! " 

Bang ! followed by another crash and a noise 
of struggling. I crawled out and saw' Lewey 
standing near, with the smoke still curling from his 
gun. 

" Much hurt ? " exclaimed he, seeing me on all 
fours. 

"' Not a scratch ! " cried I, jumping up. 

A Yankee would have bughed at me heartily. 
Lewey merely remarked, " He most have you," 
and turned to look at the moose, which we found 
dead. 

In the course of half an hour Ben and Larks 
came up. The moose was then skinned and cut in 
pieces. The storm still continuing, it was decided 
to give up the hunt and rest content with what we 
had got. Kindling a fire, we broiled some excellent 
moose-steaks, off which we made a hearty dinner. 

A moose-sled was constructed, — a rude sled of 
poles and withes, with broad runners. About half 
the meat — a weight of some four hundred pounds 
— was packed upon this, to be taken back with us. 
The other half was buried in the snow, to be taken 
away at another time. Thus buried it will at once 
freeze, and keep sweet till the snow melts in the 
spring. 

Larks and I carried the hide on a pole between 
us. The sled was drawn by Lewey and Ben. We 
did not get down to the head till the next night. 

Larks was much disappointed in the antlers', 
which were very small and tender. Moose shed 
their antlers in December. This was in February. 
They had not had time to grow out. 



Vol. 



I— 14. 



2IO 



NIMPO S TROUBLES. 



[February 



NIMPO'S TROUBLES. 
By Olive Thornk. 



Chapter III. 



NIMPO DRESSES UP. 



After dinner, Nimpo marched resolutely to her 
room, followed by her two brothers. 

"What you going to do?" asked Rush, when 
he saw Nimpo jerk her bonnet from its peg. 

" I'm going straight to the store to see cousin 
Will," she answered, bursting into tears ; " I know 
he '11 help us somehow. I won't stay here a 
minute." 

She dried her eyes, and stalked down stairs, the 
two boys still following her. Mrs. Primkins was 
not in the kitchen, so they got out without being 
seen, and hastened to their father's store. 

''Cousin Will," Nimpo began passionately the 
moment she saw him, "I want you to get us an- 
other boarding place." 

" Why, Nimpo, your mother made arrangements 
for you," answered Will. 

" I know it ; but that horrid Mrs. Primkins gave 
us mean little rooms up in the attic, and I can't 
bear them. They 're ever so much meaner than 
Sarah's room at our house, and I can't stand it, — 
so there ! " 

Cousin Will looked puzzled. 

"Well, I don't see what I can do for you. No- 
bod)- takes boarders, you know, — except students, 
— and I don't see but what you'll have to stand it. 
It won't be long anyway; and you needn't stay 
much in your room, you know." 

" But why can't I have Mrs. Jackson to keep 
house, as mother proposed ? " asked Nimpo. 

"Mrs. Jackson is taking care of Mrs. Smith, who 
is very sick. I know she would n't leave her," re- 
plied Cousin Will. 

Nimpo's face fell. 

' ' Oh, dear ! it 's too mean for anything ! I never 
have anything as I want it ! " 

" But I 'm sure this plan is yours ; you refused to 
have Mrs. Jackson, yourself." 

"So I did," said poor Nimpo: "but I never 
thought of being treated so." 

" Well, I don't see what you can do," said Cousin 
Will, who evidently did n't think it a killing matter 
to sleep in an attic room. " I guess you '11 have to 
' grin and bear it,' as Sarah says." 

"Let 's go home," suggested Rush. "Sarah 's 
there yet, and we '11 make her stay." 

But Nimpo remembered the lofty airs she had 
put on that very morning, and she could n't bear 



to come down to Sarah. So she called her pride to 
her aid, and made a resolve. 

" No, Rush, we '11 go back there and stand it. 
It 's horrid mean of her; but we need n't stay in the 
rooms, you know, and we '11 have some fun, any- 
way." 

" Very well," said Rush, with an air of relief, 
" I'll stay about here with Will for a while. You 
and Robbie had best go home to Primkins." 

So back they went. 

Climbing to the attic rooms again, Nimpo open- 
ed her trunk, and took out her dresses, which she 
hung on a row of nails at the foot of the bed. 

Robbie looked on with great interest for a 
moment, then suddenly, to Nimpo's dismay, began 
to cry. 

" I don't like nothin'," he sobbed ; " I want to 
go home to mamma." 

" Hush ! Robbie," said his sister, kissing and 
soothing him, hurriedly ; ( ■' never mind, dear. 
We '11 dress up and go out to walk. We '11 have 
some fun, if things are horrid here." 

So, with another kiss, she put on his white suit 
and red boots, and then took down her new dress. 

" Now I '11 have the good of this dress, and I 'II 
show mother that I can wear it other days besides 
Sunday, and not spoil it," she said to herself. 

The dress was of blue barege. She put it on, 
with her best cloth boots, and her blue sash. 

" What for you dressed all up ? " asked Robbie, 
rubbing his eyes. 

" Because I 'm going out to walk. Mother puts 
on her best dress when she goes out — sometimes," 
she added, for she felt a little guilty ; " I don't see 
why I should n't do so too." 

" Aint you a very pretty girl?" asked Robbie, 
earnestly, after studying the effect of the blue 
dress for some minutes. 

" Do you think I am ? " asked Nimpo, laughing. 

" P'r'aps you are. I sink so," said Robbie. 

"Well, you're a darling little rose-bud! " said 
Nimpo, giving him a spasmodic hug. 

" Aint I a pretty big rose-bud? " asked Robbie, 
seriously, " and 'sides, where's my stem?" 

" Oh, you 're the kind of rose-bud that has legs, 
and don't need a stem," said Nimpo, starting down 
stairs. 

"I'm not going down the kitchen way," said 
she, when they reached the foot of the attic stairs. 
" I guess I 'm a boarder!" and feeling very haughty 
and fine, she went down the front stairs. 



i8 7 4- 



NIMPO S TROUBLES. 



Ill 



Mrs. Primkins heard them and opened the kit- 
chen door. 

" I don't want you to go up and down that way," 
she said, "tramping up my stair carpet. You 
can use the back stairs — like the rest of us." 

Nimpo made no reply, but started for the front 
door. 

" Don't go out that way ! " screamed Mrs. Prim- 
kins; " I can't be running round to lock doors after 
a parcel of young ones, not by a jug-full ! Come 
out the back door." 

Swelling with indignation, Nimpo turned. 

" I am accustomed to go out the front door at 
home, Mrs. Primkins." 

" Wall, you aint to home now, and you need n't 
tramp up my front hall. I can tell you that. I 
don't want everything going to rack and ruin, and 
I haint got no servants to sweep out after you, as 
your mamma has." 

So they went out the back door, and took their 
way down town. 

Now, in that little western village set down in 
the woods of Ohio, children did not dress finely 
every day ; so, when Nimpo appeared on the street 
in her blue baregej she attracted a good deal of 
notice. Every one said, "Why! where are you 
going, Nimpo ? " 

She enjoyed it for awhile, but finally she began 
to be annoyed. 

" Just as if one could n't dress up without having 
everybody act so ! I do think the people in this 
town are dreadfully countrified ! " she said to her- 
self. 

When she came to the school-house the girls 
were out at recess. 

"There 's Nimpo !" some one shouted, and in a 
moment she was surrounded by a crowd of eager 
schoolmates. 

" Where 're you going ? " was the first question, 
and then, " How do you like it ?" "Are you having 
a nice time?" "Aint it splendid to do as you 're 
a mind to ? " etc., etc. 

" O, girls!" Said Nimpo, "it's perfectly horrid 
there. They eat with two-tined forks ! and don't 
have napkins ! Mrs. Primkins is a vulgar woman, 
and a tyrant. But I don't care, I sha' n't mind her. 
I have to sleep in the garret, and I 'most know 
there 's rats in the wall. " 

" Oh my!" and " Oh it 's too bad ! " and "Write 
to your mother to come home," and other expres- 
sions of sympathy followed this announcement, 
until Nimpo suddenly felt that she was a heroine. 
She had read stories about those suffering indi- 
viduals, and began to think since she could n't be 
stylish, she would be a persecuted heroine. 

Now, you must know that Nimpo was very fond 
of reading, and read every book she could beg or 



borrow. And the books she borrowed of the 
school girls were not at all like yours ; far from it ! 
they were always in two or three small, dark- 
covered volumes, and the stories were the histories 
of interesting damsels who were persecuted and tor- 
mented from the title page to the very last leaf of 
the book. 

Nimpo had read several of these — inside of her 
geography, at school — (for she knew her mother 
would object to them), and she thought it would be 
interesting to adopt that role. 

" Of course it 's frightful staying there," she be- 
gan ; "but then, I suppose, one must expect 
troubles everywhere, and, if nothing very dreadful 
happens, I suppose I can endure it." 

"Just see Nimpo take on airs ! " said Ellen Lum- 
bard, in a low tone; " I never saw any one so af- 
fected ! " 

But Nimpo did not hear, and she went on more 
naturally — - 

"To-morrow is Saturday; and I'm coming to 
see one of you girls." 

" Oh, me ! me ! " said half a dozen. 

"Well, I guess I'll begin with Nanny Cole," 
said she. " Of course, I '11 have to bring Robbie." 

"Oh, of course!" said Nanny, snatching him 
out of the arms of the twentieth girl who had kissed 
him, and said he was " as sweet as he could be," 
since Nimpo had been talking, " and be sure you 
come early. We '11 play on the creek. We can 
build dams, and have ever so much fun." 

So it was agreed ; and as the bell began ringing 
just then, the girls went in, and Nimpo and Robbie 
continued their walk. 

After awhile they went to the store again, where 
they found Rush making a big pile of old barrels, 
and such rubbish, for a bonfire in the back yard. 
Robbie wanted to help ; so Nimpo sat on the back 
steps and read a book that one of the girls had lent 
her, till it was time to go home. 

" Wall ! wall ! if that young one aint a sight to 
behold ! " exclaimed Mrs. Primkins, when she 
caught sight of Robbie. 

He was dreadfully dirty, — for the old barrel 
staves and bits of barrels that he had been carrying 
were not of the cleanest. 

" He 'd ought to have good long-sleeved checked 
aprons," said Mrs. Primkins, rigorously, "and I've 
as good a mind to make him some as ever I had 
to eat. Them stains '11 never come out." 

"He should never wear one — never!" Nimpo 
thought, angrily, but she said nothing. And per- 
haps Mrs. Primkins saw it in her face ; for the 
checked-apron subject was never renewed. 

When supper was ready there was nothing on the 
table but a plate of bread and a bowl of milk and 
Mrs. Primkins' cup of tea. 



21 : 



NIMPO S TROUBLES. 



Mr. Primkins put a slice of oread on his plate, 
and then passed the bread to the rest. Then, tak- 
ing the bowl of milk, he dipped out a few spoonsful 
to cover his slice of bread, and put the bowl before 
Rush, who sat next. Having ended his duties as 
host, he then took up his knife and fork and began 
'to cut up and eat his bread and milk. 

Rush had not noticed him, and seeing the bowl 
of milk near him, supposed it was for him, so he 
stood it upon his plate, and innocently began to 
crumble his bread into it. 

Nimpo was horrified ; though, to be sure, she 
had never seen bread and milk eaten in the Prim- 
kins style. 

Mrs. Primkins got up with a grunt and brought 
another bowl of milk, while Augusta laughed, and 
even Mr. Primkins relaxed enough to grin and say : 

" Hope you like milk, sonny ! " 

''Yes, I do, — first-rate," said Rush, innocently. 

After tea, all the children went into the yard and 
played "Tag," till bed-time. Of course, Nimpo tore 
her new dress on the fence ; but it was in the back 
breadth, and she thought she could sew it up. So, 
after all, she did n't care much for that. 

She was sorry that Robbie had soiled his white 
suit, so that he could not wear it to Nanny's next 
day. 

" Never mind ! " she said to herself, " his buff 
linen is clean, and that will do well enough." 



Chapter IV. 

NIMPO MEETS WITH AN ACCIDENT. 

Nimpo slept very well, — if it was in an attic room 
— and the next morning she was up bright and 
early to get ready for Nanny Cole's, though she did 
not intend to go till afternoon. When she began 
to dress she could find no washing conveniences, so 
she went across the attic to Augusta's room. 

" There 's no wash-bowl in my room," said she. 

"We don't use wash-bowls," said Augusta; 
"we wash in the woodshed when we go down. 
There 's always a basin and towel there." 

" But I never washed in a woodshed," said Nim- 
po, passionately, "and I never will! I'll bring 
some things from home this very day." And she 
rushed back to her room, too indignant to cry even. 

Augusta seemed amazed at her spirit, for she 
went down stairs and soon returned with a tin basin 
half full of water, and a brown towel. 

"Ma says you can have this in your room, if 
you 're so dreadful particular," and she set it down. 

Nimpo took it silently, and after that she had 
fresh water for her own use (when she did n't forget 
to bring it up) ; but Rush washed in the woodshed 
and said it was first-rate, " 'Cause a fellow could 
spatter as much as he liked." 



After breakfast, Nimpo sat down to mend her 
torn dress. She seamed up the rent as well as she 
could, — with white thread, — and then to pass away 
the time till dinner, she thought she would write to 
her mother, as she had promised to do. She got 
ner little portfolio, which her mother had filled 
nicely with paper, and in one pocket of which were 
four new stiff quill pens, which her father had made 
for her. Nimpo had never heard of a gold pen, 
and no doubt she would have scorned the very idea 
of a steel pen. Seating herself by the window, 
with a thin book on her knees, she took a sheet of 
paper and wrote : 

Dear Mother, 

It 's horrid here. I don't like it a bit. We 
sleep in a mean little hole in the attic, and I 'm 
sure there 's rats in the wall. 

They have two-tined forks to eat with, and eat 
bread and milk on a plate. I tore my blue dress, 
but mended it just as nice. Don't forget to bring 
me a book of poems. 

The girls pity me. I 'm going to spend the 
afternoon with Nanny Cole. I have n't any drawers 
to put my things in. 

Give my love to Neal and Mate if you have got 
there. It is dinner-time now, so good-bye. 

Your affectionate daughter, 

Nimpo Rievor. 

When this letter was finished, Nimpo folded it in 
a way that I don't suppose you ever heard of — for' 
envelopes were not in fashion then any more than 
steel pens. She then lighted a candle which she had 
brought up stairs when she came, took a stick of 
sealing wax and a glass stamp out of the portfolio, 
and made a neat round seal on the back of the 
letter. She then put it into her pocket to take to 
Cousin Will to direct. 

Nanny Cole lived at the edge of the village, and 
very near the woods. There was also a shallow 
creek close by, in which the children were allowed 
to play, for it was not considered deep enough to 
be dangerous. With all these attractions, Nanny's 
house was a favorite place to visit, especially with 
Nimpo, who never could get enough of the woods. 

As she and Robbie approached the house, Nanny 
and her brother came out, and they all went to the 
woods. First they got their hands and arms full 
of wild flowers, pretty moss, acorns and pine cones ; 
and when at last they could carry no more, they 
found a pretty place for a house. 

It was against the roots of a large tree, which 
had blown down. The great bundle of roots, 
higher than their heads, and full of earth, stood up 
straight, and before it was the hole it had left. 



NIMPO S TROUBLES. 



2 I 



This droil house they adorned with their treasures, 
making a carpet of moss and bouquets of the flow- 
ers, which they stuck into cracks in the great root. 

When the house was finished they played awhile. 
Then finding a flat stone for a table, they spread 
it with cookies from a basket Mrs. Cole had given 
them. 

They spent some time over this meal, eating 
from plates of clean birch bark, and drinking 
" white tea " out of dainty acorn cups. 

Then John proposed they should go and play on 
the creek, and down they went. For some time 



few boards, fastened them side by side as best they 
could, and took a long pole with which to push 
their rafts along. In this way they went up and 
down the creek and had fine times. 

Robbie was not big enough to have a boat by 
himself, so he sailed with John for awhile. But at 
last John thought he would go down through the 
rapids, as they called a place where the creek 
spread out wide, and was filled with large stones. 

Nimpo told Robbie to come to her boat, and 
she pushed her boards up towards John's, so that 
he could do it. Before she was quite ready Robbie 




IN THIS WAV THEV WENT UP AND DOWN THE CKEEK AND HAD FINE TIMES. 



they built dams where the water was very shallow. 
Then they sailed boats made of pieces of bark, 
loaded with small pebbles, which they called bags 
of wheat, or with passengers — made of pieces of 
twigs, with acorn cups for hats. These boats all 
started off bravely, and sailed gaily down the 
creek for a few rods, but there the current took 
them towards a rock in the middle of the stream, 
and against that nearly every one of them was 
wrecked. If it passed it was sure to be capsized in 
a little eddy just beyond. 

After enjoying this a long time, John proposed 
that they all should sail about on boards. Of 
course, Nimpo was ready for that, so they got a 



jumped on, and coming so suddenly, upset the 
narrow raft and threw them both into the water. 

It was not very dangerous, as I have said, for it 
was not deep, but it was very wet, and Nimpo fell 
her full length. 

John and Nanny hurried to help her, and in a 
moment she stood on the bank, wet to the skin — 
and Robbie was in the same plight. They hurried 
up to the house. Mrs. Cole wanted Nimpo to put on 
some of Nanny's clothes, and hang her own up to 
dry, but Nimpo would not consent. She said she 
would stand by the kitchen fire and dry herself. 

So by the fire she stood, one long hour that hot 
day, while Mrs. Cole took off Robbie's clothes and 



214 



NIMPO S TROUBLES. 



[February, 



dried diem. Even then she was not half dry, but 
she was tired and warm, and she thought she 
looked dry enough to go through the streets. 

But something ailed her dress, it would not dry 
straight. In spite of pulling and smoothing it 
would not " come right," and she saw very plainly 
that she could never wear it again. 

" If Mrs. Primkins does her duty," said Mrs. 
Cole, as at last Nimpo and Robbie started for 
home, " she '11 put you to bed, and give you a hot 
dose of ginger tea." 

"I guess she won't," thought Nimpo, "for I 
won't tell her a word about it. I hate ginger tea." 

It was nearly dusk when she entered the kitchen 
door, hoping to slip up stairs before any one saw 
her. But Mrs. Primkins' eyes were sharp. 

'• Why, Nimpo Rievor ! What on earth ! Have 
you been in the water ? " 

Nimpo's heart sank. 

" I got a little wet, up at Mrs. Cole's," said she. 

" Got a little wet ! I should think so ! Did you 
fall in the creek up there ? " 

" Yes," faltered Nimpo, " but I 'm all dry now." 

"All dry! Humph! You've probably got 
your death o' cold. But I '11 do my duty any- 
way, as I promised your ma. Little did I know 
what a chore it would be either," she muttered to 
herself, adding at once, " you go right straight to 
bed, and be spry about it too, and I '11 come up 
there with a cup of tea for you." 

Nimpo groaned, but did not dare to rebel, and 
besides, she was a little frightened about the 
"death o' cold." She didn't wish to die just yet. 

She climbed to her room, undressed, put on 
dry clothes, and laid down on the bed. 

In a few minutes Mrs. Primkins came up, in one 
hand a blanket, in the other l bowl. Putting the 



bowl on the stand, she first wrapped Nimpo in the 
blanket, which she had heated by the kitchen fire, 
and then' she held the bowl to her lips and told her 
to drink every drop. 

This tea was, indeed, "a horrid black stuff," as 
Nimpo inwardly called it, very much worse than 
ginger tea. Nimpo choked and gasped and gagged, 
but swallowed it. 

' Mrs. Primkins smiled grimly, and gave her a 
lump of sugar to take the taste out of her mouth. 

"Now, don't you stir hand or foot out of that 
blanket, however warm you get. If you don't get 
a good sweat you '11 have a chill, sure 's you live. 
When it 's time for you to come out I '11 run up or 
send Augusty ; " and down stairs she went. 

This ended Nimpo's first whole day of liberty. 
She had a good chance to think it over as she lay 
there wide awake. She had spoiled her visit to 
Nanny, ruined her own nice dress and boots, and, 
perhaps, caught a dreadful cold and fever. 

On the whole she had been unhappy ever since 
her mother left, though she could n't exactly see 
why. 

" I wouldn't mind the wetting," she thought, as 
she lay there alone. "I could stand this horrid 
blanket, though I believe I shall smother — and that 
bad stuff! " shuddering as she thought of it ; "but 
I know my dress is spoiled, and what shall I do with- 
out a nice dress till mother gets back? And Helen 
Benson's birthday party next week ? Oh, dear ! 
why did n't I wear a clean calico and white apron as 
mother always made me?" And Nimpo's first day 
of freedom actually ended in a fit of tears. 

But finally she cried herself to sleep, and when 
Mrs. Primkins came at bed-time, leading Robbie 
by the hand, she found her just waking up and all 
cold gone. 



(To be continued.) 



NEVER a night so dark and drear, 
Never a cruel wind so chill, 

But loving hearts can make it clear, 
And find some comfort in it still. 



• 8 7 4-: 



WOOD-CARVING. 



; i5 



WOOD-CARVING. 
By Geo. A. Sawyer. 



Part II. 



In continuing the subject of wood-carving for 
young people, the first article on which appeared 
in the December number of St. NICHOLAS, I give 
two designs for brackets, which will be found quite 
within the ability of any careful amateur worker, 
after a little practice. 

The wheel bracket, No. I , may be made of any 
wood, cigar-box, cedar, walnut or holly. The other 
one, being rather delicate, requires a strong, fine- 
grained wood like white holly. A bracket of con- 
venient size may be cut from a piece of wood four 




DESIGN FOR BRACKET (NO. i). 

inches wide by five and a-half long, and three-six- 
teenths or one-fourth of an inch thick. 

As the patterns have been reduced in the engrav- 
ings they must be drawn of the desired size on a 
piece of paper, and then transferred to the wood in 
the manner explained in the first article. It is 
better not to try and make the brackets larger than 
the dimensions indicated above, unless you are 
using a saw with a deeper bow than the one de- 
scribed in the first article, as it will be troublesome 
to saw far within the margin of the wood. There 
are other styles of saws in the market ; some with 



bows ten or more inches from the saw ; but they 
are rather more difficult to manage, and, without 
previous practice, are less useful than the one I 
figured. There are also saws which are mounted 
and run by treadles like sewing-machines, which 
are delightful to work, and which cut with great 
rapidity. They cost from ten to fifteen dollars 
each, and must be used very carefully. But equally 
good work can be done with the little hand-saws, 
if you cannot afford the more expensive kind. 

In sawing out brackets and other work of this 
size, you will find that often it is advantageous to 
put your saw into the frame with the teeth inside, 
or towards the frame, instead of the usual way; 
and, in sawing a long line, parallel to the edge of 
the wood, you can put the saw blade in sidewise, 
so that the back of the frame will be entirely out 
of the way. In fact, it is often necessary to change 
our tools around in this way, to get the best 
effects from them. I may add that you can use 
broken saw blades if the pieces are two inches or 
so in length, and they really cut better than the 
long ones, because they are proportionally stiffer; 
and often, in cutting out some delicate piece of 
work, you will find it easier to follow the lines 
than if you used a whole blade. These, however, 
are details which experience will suggest to you all. 

I will now give a few practical hints for the 
brackets. Mark out the pattern on the wood, or 
cut it out of paper and paste it on the wood with 
gum or flour paste ; then bore holes with one of 
the small brads in each space to be cut out. Saw 
first the outside margin, and the inner parts after- 
wards. You will find it comes easier to work 
systematically. That is, if you commence with a 
wheel in the. wheel bracket, finish them both before 
going off to something else. When you commence 
the leaves at the bottom, finish them all before 
you do anything else. There are two reasons why 
it is best to do this ; a moral one and a physical 
one. If you care to know it, you can ask your 
parents for the moral one, and I will tell you the 
other, which is, that if you have a number of spaces 
just alike to cut out, it is easier and better to do 
them all at once, because you get your hand in, as 
it were, and you apply the experience gained on 
each while it is fresh and most available. Conse- 
quently your work looks more symmetrical and 
even. After finishing all the sawing, take your 
files and carefully smooth all inequalities left by 



2l6 



WOOD-CARVING. 



1 February, 



the saw, and use your- eyes to see where you can 
correct errors in drawing and sawing, and make all 
the parts as nearly alike as possible. Bear in mind 
that there are hosts of people in the world who can 



mm 




DESIGN FOR BRACKET [mi, 21. 

take these or any other designs and saw them out 
in a very short time, and be perfectly satisfied with 
them ; but it is the careful after-finish which shows 
the refined taste of the 

skilled workman. r 3 

The veining of the 
leaves can be very nicely I 
done with the point of the J 
knife-edge or other thin- \ 
bladed file, helped, per- \ 
haps, with a sharp knife; \ 
though, as we progress in 
our work we may be able 
to get a tool for the ex- 
press purpose, which will 
do it with greater rapidity 
and ease. You will notice 
that some parts of the 
figures are lightly shaded. 

This irtdicates that the wood there is to be slightly 
cut away, so as to give the effect of relief to the 
other parts. The real beauty of this work depends 



SHELF FOR BRACKETS. 



upon the success with which this is done, and re- 
moves it from the simple field of plain fret-sawing 
to the finer one of wood-carving. 

If you have access to some fine art store in a 
city, and can look at some specimens of real Swiss 
picture frames, you will see at once how very beau- 
tiful they are, and you will get the idea how to 
apply the principles of carving to the simple articles 
we make for our amusement. The furniture of 
almost an) r parlor nowadays will give you some 
example of an ordinary carving, from which you 
can get ideas ; and, if you are really interested in 
this work, you will keep your eyes open, and take 
in all such ideas. I might make the sugges- 
tion here, that if you know anything about drawing 
it is an excellent plan to keep a little book and 
copy any designs which interest you ; the pattern 
of a carpet, a figure from the wall paper, a fresco, 
the margin of a book cover, or the border around 
your sister's last piece of music. You will find 
handsome designs enough if you will only look for 
them. 

These brackets can be put together with screws 
from the back, being careful to bore the holes first 
with a brad of the same size as the screw, so that 
the wood will not split. Then countersink a hole 
for the head of the screw to fit into, so that it will 
go down flush, and the bracket will hang flat on 
the wall. If you choose, instead of screws, you 
can put two pins in the shelf, as shown in No. 2. 
to go into corresponding holes in the back piece, 
and then put one screw and one pin on the front 
bracket to fit into the slots shown in the cut. This 
latter arrangement allows the bracket to be readily 
taken apart for convenience in packing. The 
front pieces, which support the shelves, arc made 
exactly like one -half of 

D the back piece below the 

shelves. In the wheel pat- 
tern leave out the leaves 
on the front piece, and 
put in the little ball shown 
by the dotted ball in the 
figure, so as to fill up the 
open space that would 
otherwise be left. If you 
saw out the back piece 
first, you can lay it down 
on paper, and use one 
side to mark the pattern 
from which to cut out the 
front piece. 
By using a fine quality of wood and by careful 
workmanship, very handsome brackets can be made 
in the manner I have described. 



1074-J 



SWEETHEART S VALENTINE. 



217 



SWEETHEART'S VALENTINE. 
By Mary E. C. Wyeth. 




Sweetheart is our baby 

Rose-bud, four years old, 
Sunny-haired and dewy-lipped, 

Worth her weight in gold. 
Playing in the parlor 

On that merry day. 
When the birds go mating, 

As the wise ones say, 

Sweetheart called out gaily. 
"Keep 'till, Bess and Nell; 
Finks I hear ze postman 

Yingin' at ze bell." 
Quickly, at the summons, 

Gentle Bessie sped. 
' Here 's a lot o' letters — 

Valentines ! " cried Fred. 
' Two for Sue and Nellie — 

Three, yes, four for Blair, — 
One for — oh ! my senses ! 
Sweetheart, — I declare ! " 



"O ye b'essed letter! ' 
Cried our tiny elf; 
"Make it open, Bessie, 
Yead it to myself." 
From the filmy missive, 
Sweetheart's valentine, 
Slowly, gentle Bessie 
Read each written line : 

To Rose, — my Sweetheart. 

" There'// be strife among the beaux. 
When you are blown, my pretty Rose. 

' ' 1 "alentiue 

"O my soul!" and Sweetheart 

Heaved a little sigh. 
"Yat is velly splen'id — 

Mose it makes me twy." 
•'Why, you little Rosy," 

Tender Bess replies, 
"Valentines should make you laugh; 

No one ever cries." 

••Ah!" quoth Sweetheart, gravely, 
" S'ou'd n't laugh 'bout mine: 
Tause, you know, me never 'fore 
Dot a wallintine." 




218 



HOW ST. VALENTINE REMEMBERED MILLY. 



[February, 



HOW ST. VALENTINE REMEMBERED MILLY 



By Susan Coolidge. 



IMAGINE a cold, snappy day in February. Frost 
on window panes, ice on tree boughs, bright sun 
twinkling on panes and boughs alike. Three chairs 
pulled close to the fire, three little girls sitting on 
the chairs, and three kittens sitting on the laps of 
the little girls. That makes six of them, you see. 
So the story begins. 

" Won't it be nice ?" said one of the six. 

" Splendid," said another. " Ever so much 
nicer than last year." The third said nothing, but 
her face grew pink, and she fluttered up and down 
in her chair as if thinking of something too exciting 
and too delightful to put into words. 

This was Milly. I want you to like her, and 1 
think you will. She was twelve years old, very 
small and thin, and very lame. A tiny pair of 
crutches, with cushioned tops, leaned against her 
chair. On these she went about the house merrily 
and contentedly all day long. Everybody liked to 
hear the sound of Milly's crutches, because it told 
that Milly was at hand. Grandmamma said there 
was no music like it to her ears ; but I think she 
must have meant to except Milly's laugh, which 
was gleeful as a silver bell. As for her face, it 
always made me think of a white, wild violet, it 
was so fair and pure and transparent, with its inno- 
cent, wondering eyes of clear blue ; and her temper 
was sweet as her face. Do you wonder that people 
loved her? She lived in an old-fashioned house 
with her grandfather and grandmother ; but at 
this time I am telling about, she was making a 
visit at her Uncle Silas's ; the first visit which Milly 
had ever made in her life. 

Uncle Silas's house was about ten miles from 
Grandpapa's. It stood in a large, busy village, 
which seemed like a city to Milly, who had never 
seen anything but the quiet country. But the most 
delightful part of the visit, she thought, was being 
among her cousins, whom she had hardly known be- 
fore. There were quite a number of them, from big 
Ralph, who counted himself almost a man, to little 
Tom in his high chair. But Milly's favorites were 
the twins, Florry and Dorry, who were almost ex- 
actly her own age. What happy times those three 
did have together ! They read story books, they 
dressed dolls : I cannot tell you half of all they 
did. Milly had been there four weeks, but it 
did n't seem four days. 

Just now they all were absorbed in a valentine 
party, which was to come off the next day but one. 
Florry was cutting a big heart out of deep red 



paper ; Dorry, with a pencil in her mouth, was 
trying to find a rhyme ; and Milly, who knew noth- 
ing about valentines, sat by stroking her kitten and 
admiring the cleverness of the other two. 

" See," explained Florry, laying the heart on the 
lid of a pasteboard box, " this will go so, on top 
of the box, and the slit for the valentines so. 
When Ralph comes in I 'm going to ask him to 
cut the slit for me." 

" And where does the box go ? " asked Milly, 
deeply interested. 

" Oh, on the hall table, you know. Then all the 
boys and girls can drop their valentines in as they 
go up stairs, and nobody can tell who wrote any 
of them." 

•' I wish I could get this right," sighed Dorry. 
"Do help me Florry. It 's for Luther Payne, you 
know, and I 've got as far as 

' I only wish, dear Luther, 
You 'd promise to be mine.' 

"There 's ' valentine,' you see, to go with ' mine,' 
but I can't find any rhyme for ' Luther.' " 

Neither could Dorry. As they were puzzling 
over it, a sound was heard in the hall, as of some 
one stamping the snow from his boots. 

■' There 's Ralph," cried Florry : " now he '11 cut 
the slit in the box." 

Ralph came in. 

" Here 's a letter for you, Milly," he said. 

" For me !" said Milly. "How funny! I never 
had a letter before. Oh, yes ! there was the letter 
Aunty wrote asking me to come and see you; but 
that was to Grandma." 

She opened the letter. Her face fell as she 
read. 

"What's the matter?" asked Dorry. "What 
makes you look so ? " 

" Grandpapa 's sick," answered Milly, in a 
choked voice. " He 's caught cold, and feels badly 
all over ; and, oh dear ! I 've got to go home. " 

'" Not right away ? Not before the party," cried 
the others. 

Milly nodded. She was too nearly crying to trust 
herself to speak. 

" But, unless Grandpa is very sick, you might 
stay till Thursday, surely," said Ralph. He took 
the letter that Milly held towards him, and read: 

My Precious Milly: — Your dear little letter 
has just come, and I am so glad that you are well 



■»74-] 



HOW ST. VALENTINE REMEMBERED MILLY. 



219 



ind happy. I am sorry to say that Grandpapa is 
sick ; not dangerously sick, but he has caught a 
;old, and feels badly all over, he says. All yester- 
day and all to-day he has staid in bed ; and, though 
he does n't say anything about it, 1 can see that he 
wishes you were at home. Would n't you like to 
:ome home, dear, and make the rest of your visit 
to Aunt Elizabeth at some other time ? I am sure it 
would comfort Grandpapa and set him right up to 
see you again. Perhaps Uncle Silas could drive 
you over to-morrow ; but I sha' n't tell Grandpapa 
that I'm looking for you, for fear that he might be 
disappointed, in case it should storm or anything 
should prevent you from coming. 
Your loving 

Grandmamma. 

"Why, you needn't go till Thursday, then." 
said Florry. "Grandmamma says she won't tell 
Grandpapa ; so he '11 not mind." 

"Oh, yes, I must. I must go to-morrow," re- 
plied Milly. " Grandpapa gets into such low spirits 
when he has these colds. I know that Grandma 
wants me very much," 

"But it's too bad," broke in Dora, almost cry- 
ing; "you never had a valentine in your life, or 
went to a valentine party ; and this is going to be 
such a nice one. You must stay. Think of going 
home to that forlorn house, Grandpa sick and all, 
when we 're having such tun here." 

"I sha'n't enjoy it one bit without you," cried 
Florry. " Don't go, Milly, don't ! Your grand- 
ma don't positively expect you right away, you see. 
It '11 do just as well if you 're there on Thurs- 
day." 

"No, it won't," said Milly, cheerfully. A big 
tear gathered in the corner of her eye and hopped 
down her nose, but her voice was quite firm. 
" Don't feel badly about it, please, for I don't. I 
could n't enjoy myself a bit if I knew that Grand- 
pa was sick, and wanted me, and I was not 
there. It 's been too lovely here, and I'm real 
sorry to go ; but, perhaps, I can come some time 
when Grandpapa is well again." 

Ralph looked and listened. He knew of the 
lump in Milly's throat as she uttered these brave 
words, and understood what a great disappointment 
it was for her to give up the valentine party. 
Aunty came in, and was as sorry as the children 
that Milly must go, though she kissed her and said 
it was quite right, and that Uncle Silas would drive 
her over to-morrow, as early as he could. Dorry 
and Florry comforted themselves with promises of 
future visits. Ralph said nothing. He seemed to 
be thinking very hard, however; and that evening, 
when Dorry wanted him, she found his bedroom 
door locked, and was informed from inside that he 



was " busy." Ralph busy! What was the world 
coming to ! 

Next morning, quite early, he came in with his 
hat and coat on. 

" Milly," he said, stooping over her, " I 've got 
to go away on business, so I '11 say good-bye to you 
now. " 

"Oh. sha'n't I see you again? I 'm so sorry," 
replied Milly, putting her white violet face against 
his rough boy's cheek. " Good-bye, dear Ralph, 
you 've been ever so good to me." 

"Good? Stuff and nonsense," said Ralph, 
gruffly, and walked away. 

"Where has Ralphy gone, mamma?" asked 
Florry. "I thought only big, grown-up people 
had 'business.' " 

" Ralphy is pretty big," said Mamma, smiling, 
but she didn't answer Florry's question. 

Just then Dorry held up Daisy, the largest and 
dearest of the kittens, to kiss Milly for "good-bye." 




DAISY IN DOLLY S CRIB. 

" Oh, yes, Milly," put in Florry, " kiss her; you 
don't know how beautifully she does it." 

Milly, laughing, to see "how beautifully Daisy 
did it," took pussy for a moment, as she sat by the 
cheerful fire, waiting for the signal to put on her 
cloak. Daisy really was a very intelligent puss. 
Milly's great delight had been to see her "go 
through her performances," as the children called 
it. She would sit in the corner at their bidding, 
make a bow, or "cry," rubbing her eyes with her 
paws ; or, better than all, she would make believe go 



220 



HOW ST. VALENTINE REMEMBERED MILLY. 



f February 



to sleep in the dolly's crib.. Milly thought of these 
things as she held Daisy's soft cheek against her 
own, and half wished she could take the little pet 
with her ; meantime the children crowded about 
her, eager not to lose a moment of her precious 
company. 

Uncle had business too, so it was three o'clock 
before Milly set off. The little cousins parted with 
tears and kisses. 

"I don't care one bit for the party now," declared 
Dorry, as she took her last look at the carriage 
moving on in the distance. 

It was a long, cold drive, and the sun was setting 
just as they drew up at Grandpapa's door. Grand- 
mamma was watching in the window. When she 
saw Milly she nodded and looked overjoyed. 

'• I was just giving you up, my precious," she 
said, as she opened the door. " Grandpapa 's been 
looking for you all day. I had to tell him. Run 
right in and see him, dear. You '11 stay the night, 
Silas?" 

" No, mother, I must be getting back. I '11 just 
step in and see father a minute. Nothing serious 
is it ? " 

" No, I think not. Half of it was fretting after 
MilK'. That child is the very apple of his eye." 

Meantime Milly was in Grandpapa's room. When 
he heard the tap, tap of her crutch, he sat up in 
bed, looking bright and eager. Such a hug as he 
gave her ! 

"Grandpapa's darling ! Grandpapa's little flower," 
he said, as he kissed her. How glad she was to 
have come ! The disappointment about the party 
was quite forgotten. 

All the evening long she sat by the side of the 
bed, telling him and Grandmamma about her visit. 
It seemed as if Grandpapa could not bear to have 
her out of his sight. At last Grandmamma inter- 
fered, and sent her up stairs so tired and sleepy 
that she just slipped off her clothes and went to 
bed as fast as she could. But, after she had said 
her prayers, and her head was on the pillow, the 
recollection of her disappointment and of the merry 
time the others were going to have on the morrow, 
came over her, and she was half inclined to cry. 

"I won't. I won't think about it," she said. 
She did n't, but valentines seemed to run in her 
head ; and all night long she dreamed about a 
valentine. 

When she woke, the sun was streaming into 
the room. She guessed that it was late, and, as 
dressing was always a slow process, she got up at 
once. But, as she put her feet into her slippers, 
she gave a little start and pulled one out again. 
Something stiff and crackling was in the slipper. 
She looked ; it was a note directed to " Miss Milly 
Meyers ; " and inside were written these verses : 



, 



" Glass slippers, kid slippers, pray what does il 
matter ? 
It doesn't matter at all. 
Your foot, Milly dear, though I don't wish tc 
flatter, 
Is just as pretty and small 

" As mine was of yore, in the days of the fairies 
When I went all in state to the dance, 
With a rat on the box of my coach, and what 
rare is, 
Mice steeds, full of spirit and prance. 

" No fairy help do you need, dear Milly, 
With your face so pure and sweet ; 
And the prince must, indeed, be dull and 
silly, 
Who does not kneel at your feet. 

" Yours affectionately, 

" Cinderella." 

Milly thought she must be dreaming again, as 
she sat on the bedside reading these verses. No ! 
she was wide awake. There was the paper in hei 
hand. Was ever anything so strange ? She deter- 
mined to dress as fast as possible, so as to gel 
down stairs and tell Grandmamma of this wonderful 
thing. 

But lo ! when she went to brush her hair, she found 
another paper wound about the handle of the 
brush, with these lines: 



" Brush your pretty hair, 
Hair of sunny gold ; 
So I brushed mine in 
Days of old. 

" Yours is quite as soft, 
Half as long ; 
Fit to figure in 
Tale or song. 

" Brushing day by day, 
Some day you may be 
Put into a book, 
Just like me. 

1 ' The Fair One with the Golden Locks. " 

Milly clasped her hands in bewilderment. The 
quality of the poetry would have shocked the 
critics, it is true, but Milly thought she never 
before had read such beautiful verses. What 
did it mean? " Dicky, dear Dicky," she cried to 
the canary, who hung in the window, "who wrote 
them? Do tell me." 

Dicky twittered by way of answer, and Milly 
saw that, hanging to the cage by a piece of thread, 



i8 7 4-J 



HOW ST. VALENTINE REMEMBERED MILLY 



221 



was a third paper. Another valentine ? Yes, there 
was the address, " Miss Milly Meyers." 

•• I am not ' blue,' 
'T is very true ; 
But all the same 
I do love you. 

•• I am a prince — 
Pray do not wince, 
My meaning soon 
I will evince. 

" I wear a beak 
And do not speak, 
That I your bower 
May safely seek. 

" Here do I sit, 
And never flit ; 
But sing all day 
For love of it. 

" For love of you 
I sing and sue ; 
Then be my own 
Oh ! maiden true. 

" Prince Yellow Bird." 

Milly dropped into a chair, too much amazed to 
stand. 

" I wonder if there really are fairies," she said, 
"for never, in my whole life, did I hear of anything 
so queer and so delightful." 

Then she took her crutches and limped across 
the room to wash her hands. But when she lifted 
the lid off the soap-tray she gave a little jump, for 
there, on the soap, lay another note. This was 
what it said : 

" To Milly. 

From her Valentine. 

" Little hands, little heart, 

Keep them pure and white, 
Fit for heavenly errands 
And the angels' sight. 

" Other hands, tired hands, 
Fearless, clasp and hold, 
Warming, with warm touches, 
Weary hearts and cold. 

" So shall hands, so shall heart, 
Fair as lilies be, 
When, life done, the angels 
Come and call for thee." 



Milly almost cried over this. She washed her 
hands slowly and carefully, repeating : 

" So shall hands, so shall heart, 
Pure as lilies be." 

" Oh, I wish they were," she said to herself. 

Fastening her dress, she felt in the pocket after 
a pocket handkerchief. None was there, but lo ! a 
parcel met her touch. \Yondering, she drew it 
out. The dress had not been with her at Uncle 
Silas's. It had been left hanging up at home, but 
there was no parcel in the pocket when last she 
wore it. 

Milly's fingers trembled with excitement. She 
could hardly untie the string. Inside the tissue 
paper which wrapped it. was a cunning pink box, 
full of jeweler's cotton. Milly lifted it. Some- 
thing lay beneath, so pretty and shining that she 
fairly screamed when she caught sight of it. It 
was a locket of clear white crystal, with a gold 
rim ; and inside a tiny strip of pink paper, on 
which were these words : 

'■ For Milly, who gave up her own pleasure 
to make her sick grandpapa happy, with the com- 
pliments of 

" Si. Valentine." 

Grandmamma was surprised enough a moment 
later, when Milly came into the dining-room almost 
at a run, her crutches clicking and tapping like 
castanets, and in her hand the locket and the four 
wonderful letters. She had never known her 
darling to be so much excited before. 

'• Did you ever see anything so lovely?" cried 
Milly. " I don't believe there will be any half so 
pretty at the party to-night. But who did send 
them, Grandmamma ? " 

" I can't imagine," replied Grandmamma, thought- 
fully. "' Ralph did n't say a word about them when 
he was here. " 

" Ralph here ? Cousin Ralph ? When ? " 

" Yesterday morning. He came over to see how 
Grandpapa was, he said. It was pretty dull for 
him, I 'm afraid, for old Mrs. Beetles came in and 
I had to sit with her, and Ralph stayed most of 
the time with Grandpapa. He went up stairs, now 
I think of it, and I did hear him in your room. 
It 's queer." 

Milly said no more, but she looked surprisingly 
happy. She loved Ralph very much. Had he 
really taken all this trouble to give her a pleasure, 
she thought ? 

So you see. in spite of her losing the party, St. 
Valentine did pretty well for Milly, after all. Don't 
you think so ? 



222 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



[February 



: 

lis 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 

By Frank R. Stockton. 



Chapter VIII. 



A LIVELY TEAM. 



" I WANT you to understand, Harry," said Mr. 
Loudon, one day, " that I do not disapprove of 
what you and Kate are doing for old Aunt Matilda. 
On the contrary, I feel proud of you both. The 
idea was honorable to you, and, so far, you have 
done very well ; better than I expected ; and I be- 
lieve I was a little more sanguine than any one else 
in the village. But you must not forget that you 
have something else to think of besides making 
money for Aunt Matilda." 

"But. don't I think of other things, father?" 
said Harry. " I 'm sure I get along well enough 
at school." 

" That may be, my boy; but I want you to get 
along better than well enough." 

This little conversation made quite an impression 
on Harry, and he talked to Kate about it. 

"I suppose father's right," said she; "but 
what 's to be done about it ? Is that poor old wo- 
man to have only half enough to eat, so that you 
may read twice as much Virgil ? " 

Harry laughed. 

"But perhaps she will have five-eighths of enough 
to eat if I only read nine-sixteenths as much Latin," 
said he. 

" Oh ! you 're always poking arithmetic fun at 
me," said Kate. " But I tell you what you can 
do," she continued. "You can get up half an 
hour earlier, every morning, and that will give you 
a good deal of extra time to think about your les- 
sons." 

" I can think about them in bed." said Harry. 

" Humph !" said Kate ; and she went on with 
her work. She was knitting a " tidy," worth two 
pounds of sugar, or half a pound of tea, when it 
should be finished. 

Harry did not get up any earlier ; for, as he ex- 
pressed it, " It was dreadfully cold before break- 
fast," on those January mornings ; but his father 
and mother noticed that the subject of Aunt Matil- 
da's maintenance did not so entirely engross the 
conversation of the brother and sister in the even- 
ings ; and that they had their heads together almost 
as often over slate and school-books as over the little 
account-book in which Kate put down receipts and 
expenditures. 

On a Thursday night, about the middle of 
January, there was a fall of snow. Not a very 



heavy fall ; the snow might have been deeper, but 
it was deep enough for sledding. On the Friday. 
Harry, in connection with another boy, Tom Sel- 
den, several years older than himself, concocted a 
grand scheme. They would haul wood, on a sled, 
all day Saturday. 

It was not to be any trifling little "boy-play' 
wood-hauling. Harry's father owned a wood-sled 
— one of the very few sleds or sleighs in the county 
— which was quite an imposing affair, as to size, at 
least. It was about eight feet long and four feet 
wide; and although it was rough enough, — being 
made of heavy boards, nailed transversely upon a 
couple of solid runners, with upright poles to keep 
the load in its place, — it was a very good sled, as 
far as it went, which had not been very far of late ; 
for there had been no good sledding for several sea- 
sons. Old Mr. Truly Matthews had a large pile of 
wood cut in a forest about a mile and a-half from 
the village, and the boys knew that he wanted it 
hauled to the house, and that, by a good day's 
work, considerable money could be made. 

All the arrangements were concluded on Friday, 
which was a half-holiday, on account of the snow 
making traveling unpleasant for those scholars who 
lived at a distance. Harry's father gave his consent 
to the plan, and loaned his sled. Three negro men 
agreed to help for one-fourth of the profits. Tom 
Selden went into the affair, heart and hand, agree- 
ing to take his share out in fun. What money was 
made, after paying expenses, was to go into the 
Aunt Matilda Fund, which was tolerably low about 
that time. 

Kate gave her earnest sanction to the scheme, 
which was quite disinterested on her part, for, being 
a girl, she could not very well go on a wood-hauling 
expedition, and she could expect to do little else 
but stay at home and calculate the probable profits 
of the trips. 

The only difficulty was to procure a team ; and 
nothing less than a four-horse team would satisfy 
the boys. 

Mr. Loudon lent one horse ; old Selim, a big 
brown fellow, who was very good at pulling when 
he felt in the humor. Tom could bring no horse ; 
for his father did not care to lend his horses for such 
a purpose. He was afraid they might get their legs 
broken ; and, strange as it seemed to the boys, most 
of the neighbors appeared to have similar notions. 
Horses were very hard to borrow that Friday after- 
noon. But a negro man, named Isaac Waddell, 



i8 7 4-] 



"WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



22' 



agreed to hire his thin horse. Hector, for fifty cents 
for the day ; and the store-keeper, after much per- 
suasion, lent a big grey mule, Grits, by name. 
There was another mule in the village, which the 
boys could have if they wanted her ; but they didn't 
want her — that is, if they could get anything else 
with four legs that would do to go in their team. 
This was Polly, a little mule, belonging to Mrs. 
Dabney, who kept the post-of.'.ce. Polly was not only 
very little in size, but she was also very little given to 
going. She did not particularly object to a walk, 
•if it were not too long, and would pull a buggy or 
carry a man with great complacency, but she sel- 
dom indulged in trotting. It was of no use to whip 
her. Her skin was so thick, or so destitute of feel- 
ing, that she did not seem to take any notice of a 
good hard crack. Polly was not a favorite, but she 
doubtless had her merits, although no one knew 
exactly what they were. Perhaps the best thing 
that could be said about her, was, that she did not 
take up much room. 

But, on Saturday, it was evident that Polly would 
have to be taken, for no animal could be obtained 
in her place. 

So, soon after breakfast, the team was collected 
in Mr. Loudon's back-yard, and harnessed to the 
sled. Besides the three negroes who had been 
hired, there were seven volunteers — some big and 
some little, — who were very willing to work for 
nothing, if they might have a ride on the sled. 
The harness was not the best in the world ; some 
of it was leather, and some was rope and some was 
chain. It was gathered together from various quar- 
ters, like the team — nobody seemed anxious to lend 
good harness. 

Grits and thin Hector were the leaders, and 
Polly and old Selim were the pole-horses, so to 
speak. 

When all the straps were buckled, and the chains 
hooked, and the knots tied (and this took a good 
while, as there were only twelve men and boys to 
do it), Dick Ford jumped on old Selim, little Johnny 
Sand, as black as ink, was hoisted on Grits, and 
Gregory Montague, a tall yellow boy, with high 
boots and no toes to them, bestrode thin Hector. 
Harry, Tom, and nine negroes (two more had just 
come into the yard) jumped on the sled. Dick 
Ford cracked his whip ; Kate stood on the back- 
door step and clapped her hands ; all the darkies 
shouted ; Tom and Harry hurrahed ; and away 
they did n't go. 

Polly was n't ready. 

And what was more, old brown Selim was per- 
fectly willing to wait for her. He looked around 
mildly at the little mule, as if he would say : " Now, 
don't be in a hurry, my r good Polly. Be sure 
you're right before you go ahead." 



Polly was quite sure she was n't right, and stood 
as stiffly as if she had been frozen to the ground, 
and all the cracking of whips and shouting of "Git 
up!" "Go 'long!" "What you mean, dar? you 
Polly !" made no impression on her. 

Then Harry made his voice heard above the 
hubbub. 

"Never mind Polly!" he shouted. "Let her 
alone. Dick, and you other fellows, just start off 
your own horses. Now, then ! Get up, all of you ! " 

At this, every rider whipped up his horse or his 
mule, and spurred him with his heels, and every 
darkey shouted, "Hi, dar!" and off they went, 
rattledy bang ! 

Polly went, too. There was never such an as- 
tonished little mule in this world ! Out of the gate 
they all whirled at a full gallop, and up the road, 
tearing along. Negroes shouting, chains rattling, 
snow flying back from sixteen pounding hoofs, sled 
cutting through the snow like a ship at sea, and a 
little darkey shooting out behind at every bounce 
over a rough place ! 

" Hurrah !" cried Harry, holding tight to an up- 
right pole. " Is n't this splendid !" 

" Splendid ! It 's glorious !" shouted Tom. 

" It 's better than being a pi ." And down he 

went on his knees, as the big sled banged over a 
stone in the road, and Josephine's Bobby was 
bounced out into a snow-drift under a fence. 

Whether Tom intended to say a pirate or a py- 
rotechnic, was never discovered; but, in six min- 
utes, there was only one of the small darkies left on 
the sled. The men, and this one, John William 
Webster, hung on to the poles as if they were glued 
there. 

As for Polly, she was carried along faster than 
she ever went before in her life. She jumped, she 
skipped, she galloped, she slid, she skated ; some- 
times sitting down, and sometimes on her feet, but 
flying along, all the same, no matter how she chose 
to go. 

And so, rattling, shouting, banging, bouncing ; 
snow flying and whips cracking, on they sped, until 
John William Webster's pole came out, and clip ! 
he went heels over head into the snow. 

But John William had a soul above tumbles. In 
an instant he jerked himself up to his feet, dropped 
the pole, and dashed after the sled. 

Swiftly onward went the sled, and right behind 
came John William, his legs working like steam- 
boat wheels, his white teeth shining, and his big 
eyes sparkling ! 

There was no stopping the sled ; but there was 
no stopping John William, either, and in less than 
two minutes he reached the sled, grabbed a man 
by the leg, and tugged and pulled until he seated 
himself on the end board. 



22 4 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEX EXPECTED. 



[February, 



" I tole yer so !" said he, when he got his breath. 
And yet he had n't told anybody anything. 

And now the woods were reached, and after a 
deal of pulling and shouting, the team was brought 
to a halt, and then slowly led through a short road 
to where the wood was piled. 

The big mule and the horses steamed and puffed 
a little, but Polly stood as calm as a rocking-horse. 

Notwithstanding the rapidity of the drive, it was 
late when the party reached the woods. The gath- 
ering together and harnessing of the team had taken 
much longer than they expected ; and so the boys 
set to work with a will to load the sled ; for they 
wanted to make two trips that morning. But al- 
though they all, black and white, worked hard, it 
was slow business. Some of the wood was cut and 
split properly, and some was not, and then the sled 
had to be turned around, and there was but little 
room to do it in, and so a good deal of time was 
lost. 

But at last the sled was loaded up, and the) - were 
nearly ready to start, when John William Webster, 
who had run out to the main road, set up a shout : 

"Oh! Mah'sr Harry! Mah'sr Tom ! " 

Harry and Tom ran out to the road, and stood 
there petrified with astonishment. 

Where was the snow ? 

It was all gone, excepting a little here and there in 
the shade of the fence corners. The day had turned 
out to be quite mild, and the sun, which was now 
nearly at its noon height, had melted it all away. 

Here was a most unlooked-for state of affairs ! 
What was to be done ? The boys ran back to the 
sled, and the colored men ran out to the road, and 
everybody talked and nobody seemed to say any- 
thing of use. 

At last Dick Ford spoke up : 

•' I tell ye what, Mah'sr Harry ! I say, just let 's 
go 'long," said he. 

'' But how are you going to do it ? " said Harry. 
' ' There 's no snow. " 

" I know that; but de mud 's jist as slippery as 
grease. That thar team kin pull it, easy nuf !" 

Harry and Tom consulted together, and agreed 
to drive out to the road and try what could be done, 
and then, if the loaded sled was too much for the 
team they would throw off the wood and go home 
with the empty sled. 

There was snow enough until they reached the 
road, — for very little had melted in the woods, — 
and when they got fairly out on the main road the 
team did not seem to mind the change from snow 
to thin mud. 

The load was not a very heavy one, and there 
were two horses and two mules — a pretty ctrong 
team. 

Polly did very well. She was now harnessed with 



Grits in the lead; and she pulled along bravely. 
But it was slow work, compared to the lively ride 
over the snow. The boys and the men trudged 
through the mud, by the side of the sled, and, 
looking at it in the best possible light, it was a very 
dull way to haul wood. The boys agreed that 
after this trip they would be very careful not to go 
on another mud-sledding expedition. 

But soon they came to a long hill, and, going 
down this, the team began to trot, and Harry and 
Tom and one or two of the men jumped on the 
edges of the sled, outside of the load, holding on to 
the poles. Then Grits, the big mule, began to run 
and Gregory could n't hold him in, and old Selim 
and thin Hector and little Polly all struck out on a 
gallop, and away they went, bumping and thump- 
ing down the hill. 

And then stick after stick, two sticks, six sticks, 
a dozen sticks at a time, slipped out behind. 

It was of no use to catch at them to hold them 
on. They were not fastened down in any way, and 
Harry and Tom and the men on the sled had as 
much as they could do to hold themselves on. 

When they reached the bottom of the hill, the 
pulling became harder ; but Grits had no idea of 
stopping for that. He was bound for home. And 
so he plunged on at the top of his speed. But the 
rest of the team did not fancy going so fast on level 
ground, and they slackened their pace. 

This did not suit Grits. He gave one tremen- 
dous bound, burst loose from his harness and dashed 
ahead. Up went his hind legs in the air; off shot 
Gregory Montague into the mud, and then away 
went Grits, clipperty clap ! home to his stable. 

When Harry and Tom, the two horses, the little 
mule, the eight colored men, the sled, John William 
Webster and eleven logs of wood reached the vil- 
lage it was considerably after dinner-time. 

When the horse hire was paid, and something 
was expended for mending borrowed harness, and 
the negroes had received a little present for their 
labor, the Aunt Matilda Fund was diminished by 
the sum of three dollars and eighty cents. 

Mr. Truly Matthews agreed to say nothing about 
the loss of his wood that was scattered along the 
road. 

Chapter IX. 

BUSINESS IN EARNEST. 

ALTHOUGH Harry did not find his wood-hauling 
speculation very profitable, it was really of advant- 
age to him, for it gave him an idea. 

And his idea was a very good one. He saw 
clearly enough that money could be made by haul- 
ing wood, and he was also quite certain that it 
would never do for him to take his time, especially 



i8 74 ] 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



225 



during school term, for that purpose. So, after 
consultation with his father, and after a great deal 
of figuring by Kate, he determined to go into the 
business in a regular way. 

About five miles from the village was a railroad 
station, and it was also a wood station. Here the 
railroad company paid two dollars a cord for wood 
delivered on their grounds. 

Two miles from the station, on the other side of 
Crooked Creek, Harry's father owned a large tract 
of forest land, and here Harry received permission 



get receipts for it from the station-master ; and it 
was to "be Harry's business to collect the money at 
stated times, and divide the proceeds according to 
the rate agreed upon. Harry and his father made 
the necessary arrangements with the station-master, 
and thus all the preliminaries were settled quite 
satisfactorily. 

In a few days the negroes were at work, and as 
they both lived but a short distance from the creek, 
on the village side, it was quite convenient for 
them. John Walker had a stable in which to 







GRITS CONCLUDES TO GO HOME BY HIMSELF. 



to cut and take away all the wood that he wanted. 
Mr. Loudon was perfectly willing, in this way, to 
help his children in their good work. 

So Harry made arrangements with Dick Ford 
and John Walker, who were not regularly hired to 
any one that winter, to cut and haul his wood for 
him, on shares. John Walker had a wagon, which 
was merely a set of wheels, with a board floor laid on 
the axletrees, and the use of this he contributed in 
consideration of a little larger share in the profits. 
Harry hired Grits and another mule at a low rate, 
as there was not much for mules to do at that time 
of the year. 

The men were to cut and deliver the wood and 

Vol. 1.-15. 



keep the mules, and the cost of their feed was also 
to be added to his share of the profits. 

In a short time Harry had quite a number of 
applications from negroes who wished to cut wood 
for him, but he declined to hire any additional 
force until he saw how his speculation would turn 
out. 

Old Uncle Braddock pleaded hard to be employed. 
He could not cut wood, nor could he drive a team, 
but he was sure he could be of great use as over- 
seer. 

" You see, Mah 'sr Harry," he said, " I lib right 
on de outside edge ob you pa's woods, and I kin 
go ober dar jist as easy as nuffin, early every 



226 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



[Februarv. 



mornin', and see dat dem boys does dere work, 
and don't chop down de wrong trees. Mind now, 
I tell ye, you all will make a pile o' money ef ye 
list hire me to obersee dem boys." 

For some time Harry resisted his entreaties, but 
at last, principally on account of Kate's argument 
that the old man ought to be encouraged in making 
something towards his living, if he were able and 
willing to do so, Harry hired him on his own 
terms, which were ten cents a day. 

About four o'clock every afternoon during his 
engagement, Uncle Braddock made his appear- 
ance in the village, to demand his ten cents. 
When Harry remonstrated with him on his quitting 
work so early, he said : 

" Why, you see, Mah'sr Harry, it's a long way 
from dem woods here, and I got to go all de way 
back home agin ; and it gits dark mighty early 
dese short days." 

In about a week the old man came to Harry and 
declared that he must throw up his engagement. 

" What 's the matter ? " asked Harry. 

" I 'm gwine to gib up dat job, Mah 'sr Harry." 

" But why ? You wanted it bad enough," said 
Harry. 

" But I 'm gwine to gib it up now," said the old 
man. 

" Well, I want you to tell me your reasons for 
giving it up," persisted Harry. 

Uncle Braddock stood silent for a few minutes, 
and then he said : 

" Well, Mah'sr Harry, dis is jist de truf ; dem 
ar boys, dey ses to me dat ef I come foolin' around 
dere any more, dey 'd jist chop me up, ole wrapper 
an' all, and haul me off fur kindlin' wood. Dey 
say I was dry enough. An' dey need n't a made 
sich a fuss about it, fur I did n't trouble 'em much ; 
hardly eber went nigh 'em. Ten cents' worf o' 
oberseein' aint a-gwine to hurt nobody." 

"Well, Uncle Braddock," said Harry, laughing, 
' ' I- think you 're wise to give it up. " 

" Dat 's so," said the old negro, and away he 
trudged to Aunt Matilda's cabin, where, no doubt, 
he ate a very good ten cents' worth of corn-meal 
and bacon. 

This wood enterprise of Harry's worked pretty 
well on the whole. Sometimes the men cut and 
hauled quite steadily, and sometimes they did n't. 
Once every two weeks Harry rode over to the sta- 
tion, and collected what was due him ; and his share 
of the profits kept Aunt Matilda quite comfortably. 

But, although Kate was debarred from any share 
in this business, she worked every day at her tidies 
for the store, and knit stockings, besides, for some 
of the neighbors, who furnished the yarn and paid 
her a fair price. There were people who thought 
Mrs. Loudon did wrong in allowing her daughter 



to work for money in this way, but Kate's mother 
said that the end justified the work, and that so 
long as Kate persevered in her self-appointed 
tasks, she should not interfere. 

As for Kate, she said she should work on, no 
matter how much money Harry made. There was 
no knowing what might happen. 

But the most important part of Kate's duties was 
the personal attention she paid to Aunt Matilda. 
She went over to the old woman's cabin every day 
or two, and saw that she was kept warm and had 
what she needed. 

And these visits had a good influence on the old 
woman, for her cabin soon began to look much 
neater, now that a nice little girl came to see her 
so often. 

When the spring came on, Aunt Matilda actually 
took it into her head to whitewash her cabin, a 
thing she had not done for years. She and Uncle 
Braddock worked at it by turns. The old woman 
was too stiff and rheumatic to keep at such work long 
at a time ; but she was very proud of her white- 
washing; and when she was tired of working at the 
inside of her cabin, she used to go out and white- 
wash the trunks of the trees around the house. 
She had seen trees thus ornamented, and she 
thought they were perfectly beautiful. 

Kate was violently opposed to anything of this 
kind, and, at last, told Aunt Matilda that if she 
persisted in surrounding her house with what looked 
like a forest of tombstones, she, Kate, would have 
to stop coming there. 

So Aunt Matilda, in a manner, desisted. 

But one day she noticed a little birch tree, some 
distance from the house, and the inclination to 
whitewash that little birch was too strong to be re- 
sisted. 

" He 's so near white, anyway," she said to her- 
self, " dat it 's a pity not to finish him." 

So off she hobbled with a tin cup full of whitewash 
and a small brush to adorn the little birch tree, 
leaving her cabin in the charge of Holly Thomas. 

Holly, whose whole name was Hollywood Ceme- 
tery Thomas, was a little black girl, between two 
and five years old. Sometimes she seemed nearly 
five and sometimes not more than two. Her par- 
ents intended christening her Minerva, but hearing 
the name of the well-known Hollywood Cemetery 
in Richmond, they thought it so pretty that they 
gave it to their little daughter, without the slightest 
idea, however, that it was the name of a grave- 
yard. 

Holly had come over to pay a morning visit to. 
Aunt Matilda, and she had brought her only child, 
a wooden doll, which she was trying to teack tO' 
walk, by dragging it about, head foremost, by a long 
string tied around its neck. 



de 
Al 

I!' 

1 

i 



; 874-1 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



227 



s • " Now den, you Holly, you stay h'yar and mind 
" 'ie house while I 's gone," said Aunt Matilda, as 
' :he departed. 

"All yite," said the little darkey, and she sat 

lown on the floor to prepare her child for a coat of 
■ whitewash ; but she had not yet succeeded in con- 

yincing the doll of the importance of the operation 

vhen her attention was aroused by a dog just out- 

iide of the door. 
It was Kate's little woolly white dog, Blinks, who 




KEAMliD HOLLY 



often used to come to the cabin with her, and 
who sometimes, when he got a chance to run away, 
used to come alone, as he did this morning. 

" Go 'way dar. litty dog," said Miss Holly ; " yer 
can't come in; dere 's nobody home. Yun 'long, 
now, d' yer y'ear ! " 

But Blinks either didn't hear or did n't care, for 
he stuck his head in at the door. 

" Go 'way, dere ! " shouted Holly, "Aunt Tillum 
aint home. Go 'way now and turn bat in half an 



hour. Aunt Tillum '11 be bat den. Don't yer hear 
now, go 'way / " 

But, instead of going away. Blinks trotted in, as 
bold as a four-pound lion. 

" Go 'way, go 'way ! " screamed Holly, squeez- 
ing herself up against the wall in her terror, and 
then Blinks barked at her. He had never seen a 
little black girl behave so, in the whole course of 
his life, and it was quite right in him to bark and 
let her know what he thought of her conduct. 
Then Holly, in her fright, 
dropped her doll, and 
when Blinks approached 
to examine it, she scream- 
ed louder and louder, and 
Blinks barked more and 
more, and there was quite 
a hubbub. In the midst 
of it a man put his head 
in at the door of the 
cabin. 

He was a tall man, with 
red hair and a red freck- 
led face, and a red brist- 
ling moustache, and big 
red hands. 

" What 's all this noise 
about?" said he; and 
when he saw what it was, 
he came in. 

"Get out of this, you 
little beast ! " said he to 
Blinks, and putting the 
toe of his boot under the 
little dog, he kicked him 
clear out of the door of 
the cabin. Then turning 
to Holly, he looked at 
her pretty much as if he 
intended to kick her out 
too. But he did n't. He 
put out one of his big red 
hands and said to her : 
" Shake hands." 
Holly obeyed without a 
word, and then snatching 
her wooden child from 
the floor, she darted out of the door and reached 
the village almost as soon as poor Blinks. 

In a minute or two Aunt Matilda made her ap- 
pearance at the door. She had heard the barking 
and the screaming, and had come to see what was 
the matter. 

When she saw the man, she exclaimed : 
" Why, Mah'sr George ! Is dat you ? " 
" Yes, it 's me," said the man. " Shake hands, 
Aunt Matilda." 



228 



JOHN MARTIN S SNOWBALL. 



[FEERL'AR', 






" I thought you was down in Mississippi, Mah'sr 
George," said the old woman; ''and I thought 
you was gwine to stay dar." 

" Could n't do it," said the man. " It did n't suit- 
me, down there. Five years of it was enough for 
me." 

" Enough fur dem, too. p'r'aps ! " said Aunt Ma- 
tilda, with a grim chuckle. 

The man took no notice of her remark but said : 

" I did n't intend to stop here, but I heard such a 
barking and screaming in your cabin, that I turned 
out of my way to see what the row was about. I Ye 
just come up from the railroad. Does old Michaels 
keep store here yet ? " 

"No, he don't," said Aunt Matilda: "he's 
dead. Mah'sr Darby keeps dar now." 



Is that so ? " cried the man. 



old Michaels' account 
the village. Why, I 



that I was 
m mighty 



■' Why, it was on 
sneakin' around 
glad I stopped 

{To be continued.} 



here. It makes things different if old Michael 
is n't about. " 

" Well, ye might as well go 'long," said Aun 
Matilda, who seemed to be getting into a bad 
humor. " There 's others who knows jist as much 
about yer bad doin's as Mah'sr Michaels did." 

" I suppose you mean that meddling humbug, 
John Loudon," said the man. 

" Now, look h'yar, you George Mason ! " cried 
Aunt Matilda, making one long step towards the 
whitewash bucket; "jist you git out o' dat dar 
door ! " and she seized the whitewash brush and 
gave it a terrific swash in the bucket. 

The man looked at her — he knew her of old — 
and then he left the cabin almost as quickly as 
Blinks and Holly went out of it. 

" Ef it had n't been fur dat little dog," said Aunt 
Matilda, grumly, "he'd a gone on. Them little 
dogs is always a-doin' mischief." 






; 
- 



JOHN MARTIN'S SNOWBALL. 

(Translation of French Story in January A'ltmber.) 



There are persons who believe that anyone can 
make a good snowball, and there are also persons 
who suppose that it is an easy thing to play well on 
the violin. 

One of these opinions is as incorrect as the other. 

To make a really good snowball requires a spe- 
cial education. In the first place, one must be a 
judge of snow, which must not be too wet or too 
dry. Then it is necessary to know how to make 
the ball round and symmetrical, and how to cause it 
to become firm and solid, by squeezing it, not too 
hard, between the knees. In a word, snowball 
making is a science. 

John Martin was a master of this science. He 
was a boy who was always glad to make himself 
perfect in any pursuit not connected with his busi- 
ness. 

Snowballing was not connected with his business ; 
for John was an apprentice to a baker. 
- Early in the winter of 1872, there was a beauti- 
ful snow-storm. The snow was neither too wet 
nor too dry. John ran into the street to have a 
good quarter of an hour at snowballing. He filled 
both his hands with snow ; he rounded it, he 
squeezed it, not too hard, between his knees. He 
made a magnificent snowball. It was now only 
necessary to throw it at some one, and the destiny 
of the snowball would be fulfilled. He did not wait 
long for an opportunity ; for he soon saw, coming 
clown the street, old Mr. Anthony White, with his 
good wife, Mrs. White. When they had passed 



him, John took good aim, and threw his snowball. 

It was a grand shot. 

Then John cast his eyes upon the ground, and 
looked as innocent as a lamb. 

Old Mr. White gave one great jump. 

"Oh!" he cried, "what is that? I have been 
struck by an avalanche of snow. It has, perhaps, 
fallen from a house-top. Ugh ! it is in my ear. 
It is trickling down my neck. I feel it inside 
of my flannel jacket. Oh ! but it is cold ! Hor- 
rible ! Why did I come in the streets when the 
snow is falling from the house-tops in this fashion?" 

But his good wife, Mrs. White, did not allow 
herself to be deceived. She knew that the snow 
did not fall from the top of a house. She had been 
looking back, and she had seen John throw the 
snowball. "Ah! you bad boy!" she cried; "I 
saw you. You threw the snow at my good hus- 
band. I shall tell the mayor, and you shall be put 
in jail. You young rascal !" 

"Oh! good Mrs. White!" cried John, looking 
up in astonishment, "are they then throwing 
snowballs? Oh ! the bad boys ! I am afraid some 
one will throw one of those terrible snowballs at 
me. I shall run home. I have no flannel jacket ; 
and if a snowball should go down my back I should 
perish with cold. I thank you, my good lady, for 
warning me. Good-by !" 

And away ran the innocent John Martin to make 
another snowball, and to wait for another old gentle- 
man, that he might hit him behind the ear. 



B74-: 



GERMAN STORY, FOR TRANSLATION. 



GERMAN STORY, FOR TRANSLATION. 
£>ans Sfti)ttjar'tf $riiljftiiif. 

Slon 3. 8. 



E* mar cinmal cin 2)cann, bcr bicp pan* Sinitjar. £er 
ajar fo jcrftrcut, bap er mandjmal an feincr eigenen -piiuetliiir 
lingelte unb fragtc, ob -pen Sttiifjar ju §aufe fci; unb 
oa* bcrglcicpen Sborbciten mcbr ftnb. 

Sine* £age3 ftanb .Jan* auf ber Strafe unb bad)tc ernfl« 
id) bariibcr nadi, wo cr fciri griibftiitf l)crnebmcn follte. SBo 
onnte cr etwas ju e|Jcn bcfommcn ? @r war fiirditevtidb bung 
ig unb batte audi nictit eincn pfennig in bcr Tnfdje. 1>c* 




9)corgcn* frujj mar er au*gegangen, urn eincn rcetten SBcg ju 
madien unb urn nacb .paufe ju geljen, war e* nun ju roeit. 

3e meiir er itber feme ungliidlidje Cage nacbbadite, befto 
mcland)olifd)er marb cr, unb cr fab fo miferabcl au*, bap 
ciner fciner grcunbe, ber auf ber anbcren ©cite ber Strape 
poriiberging, ju ibm beriibcrfam unb ibn fragte, ma* e* benn 
gd'be? 

£an* blirfte auf unb fagtc in reebmutljigcm £onc : „j<ii bin 

We are much pleased with the interest that our readers have 
shown in the German and French sketches that we have given them 
for translation. _ Those who are able to render the above little story 
into English will find out something quite curious about that poor 
gentleman in the picture 

The best translations of the French story in our December num- 
ber — "Haifa Loaf is Better than No Bread" — were sent in by 



bungrig unb babe fcin (JVlb, unb c* ift ju mcit, nad) .paufe 
ju geben, urn bort ju frubftitden. 3ft ba* nicbt genug, urn 
mid) triibe ju ftiramen ?" — 3n bcmfclbcn Slugcnblirfc crblirtte 
fcin fvrcunb eine 2£urft, bic au* .panfene Siodtafcbe bcrau** 
gudtc. 

„3lb," fagtc cr, „id) febe, ma* S)ir feblt. 3?u Pergapt£>cm 
5nibftud mit;nnebmen ?" 

„3a," fagte .pan*, „tcb mupte, bafi icb ben ganjen Sag itber 
uon .paufe fern miirbe, unb id) babemcin grulifturt oergeffen." 

„l>a$ ift fditimm," fagte fcin greunb, bcr cin luftiger 
Surfcfjc War, „unb e* tbut mir kib, bap idi lir nicbt bclfett 
faun, benn id) babe fetn ©elb bet mir." 

,,3'a, ba* macht bic Sadie nodi fdilimmcr," fagtc .pan* 
iiadibcnflid), „mabrfdictnlid) merbe id) franf mcrben." 

„3d) fann Tir nur eincn 3tatb geben," fagtc fcin grcunb, 
— „Unb mas ift ber?" — „Vu magft t$ »iellcid)t nidit gem 
tbun," fagte ber Slnbere. — „$aU$ c* ebrlid) unb gcredit ift 
unb eincn rcblidicn SDiann nicbt febamrotf) madit, fo wilt id) 1 * 
tbun," fagte pan*, „bcnn id) bin febr bungrig." 

„3>ic Sadie ift mcincr 2lnficbt nad) pbllig tugenbbaft," 
fagte fcin grcunb, „bcnnodt abcr magft 25u fie niditau*fiibrcn 
molten." 

„3Barum benn nicbt?" fragte $an$. 

„SBetI Zu c* biebcr nid)t gctljan |aft," antroortctc fcin 
greunb. ,,'Sie Sadjc ift gaits etnfacb. 2lUc* ma* I'll ju 
tljun ()aft, ift, Deine .panb in 3>cinc Stocftafdic ju fteden unb 
bie bide ffiurft berauajubolcn, bic idi ba febe, nub bei bcr je* 
bcnfall* aurb ctroa* S3rob Ttcdt, benn idi febe, X'e'ine lafdie 
ift geftopft soil." 

©an* febaute ganj »errounbcrt auf, bann ftedtc cr bcibe 
■6anbc in fcine Siodtafcbe unb jog mit »ielcr ffliiibc eine grope 
Siiurft unb eincn balben Caib SJtoggcnbrob bcrauo. SJJit ber 
ii'urft in bcr cinen unb bem 33rob in bcr anbcren .panb ftanb 
er ganj uerbu&t ba, mabrcnb fcin Srcunb taut ladicnb son 
banneit ging. -pan* sicrfaut nun in cine neue Xraumcrci, unb 
roabrcnb cr ficb nutnberte, tote nur bic* allc* fo jugegangcit 
fcin Fonntc, ocrgap cr fcin grubftiid uoUftanbig, bi* bap e* 
faft Slbcnb mar. 9!un badite cr, fbnnte er and) gcrabc fo gut 
nadi Jjaufc geben unb cin roarmc* Slbcnbbrob baben, al* bic 
falte SBurfl unb ba* 33rob ju effen, bie er licber ben Jpunbcu 
geben moiltc, von bencn cine 9(n?abl urn tt)n berumfprangen 
unb bclltcn ; benn bie Spcife, bic -pan* fo lange in .£>anben 
gcbabt, ftattc fie angclodt. 

5)bcr $>an* scrgap aud) ba* unb ging nad) £au* mit SJrob 
unb JSurft in bcr £anb unb fdmmtlidic .punbe bintcr i^tn ber. 

•?((* cr nad) .Paufe fam, ttingcltc man gerabe jum Stbcnb* 
effen. 3n bcmfclbcn Slugenblide fab, -pan* jufdllig bie 
Spcifcn, bic cr in ber £anb tficlt. |>an* in feincr gerftrcut* 
bcit pcrgap nun alle* in bcr SCelt, fetjte fid) auf bic $au*^ 
treppe unb ap fcine 2Burft unb 23rob bi* auf ben le&ten 
Siffcn. 

Louis M. Fishback, Annie C. MacKie, Effie L. C. Gates and Sidie 
V. B. Parker. Lucy G. Bull, a little girl only twelve years old, 
sends a remarkably good metrical translation of this story. 

Very good translations of "John Martin's Snowball," in the Jan- 
uary number have been sent in by " Inconnue," Harvey M. Mans- 
field, Edgar G. T., Scott O. McWhortcr, Susan Thayer, H. H. 
Ziegler, James G. Dagron, Miriam Davis and Fred. \V. Hobbs. 



SOME BOYS IN AFRICA. 



[February 



SOME BOYS IN AFRICA. 
By M. s. 



A BOOK for big boys has recently been written 
by Mr. Henry M. Stanley, who, two years ago, led a 
small body of men through Central Africa, in a 
search for Dr. Livingstone, the great African 
traveler. It is a story showing what kind of men 
live in Central Africa, and their manners and cus- 
toms. It also gives some account of the tropical 
forests, and of the great savage beasts who roam 
through them. 

A company of wealthy Arabs, who lived on the 
island of Zanzibar, organized an expedition to pro- 
ceed into the interior of Africa to obtain slaves, 
ivory, and copper. Five Arab boys, sons of the 
chief men of the party, accompanied this expedi- 
tion. The caravan proceeded without serious 
interruption to Lake Tanganika, where it encoun- 
tered two numerous and warlike tribes of Negroes, 
the Waruri and Watuta. A fierce battle took 
place, in which the Arabs were routed, and most 
of them killed. The survivors, being prisoners of 
war, were made slaves, according to the universal 
custom of the African tribes. 

Then commenced a long and weary march for 
the slaves, including four of the Arab boys, the 
eldest of the five boys having been slain in the 
battle. Their sufferings were great, and two died 
upon the road. There were then but two left, 
Selim, who was fifteen years old, and Abdullah, 
who was somewhat younger. 

Their destination was the chief village of the 
tribe ; and, when within five days' march of it, 
Selim effected his escape. In the middle of the 
night, when the camp was perfectly quiet, he 
slipped out of his bonds, and walked quickly, but 



cautiously, to a tree near by, where he knew some 
weapons had been placed, and selecting a gun, 
powder-horn, a cartridge-box, and a couple of 
spears, he made his way softly into the forest. 

He walked steadily all the rest of that night, and 
part of the next day, until he came to a pool of cool 
fresh water, where he quenched his thirst. Near 
this pool there was a large tree, with a hole in the 
trunk some distance above the ground. Peeping 
cautiously into this, Selim saw that it led to a hol- 
low in the tree, which was empty, and large enough 
"to hold him and his weapons. He crept in, and, 
being very tired, was asleep in a few minutes. 

When he awoke it was night. Everything was 
quiet. He got up and looked out. He could not 
see anything distinctly, but he thought there was a 
dark object moving stealthily towards the tree, and 
immediately afterwards a most horrible and ' un- 
earthly laugh rang through the woods. Selim knew 
by this that it was a hyena ; though startled, he 
was not much frightened, feeling sure the beast 




li 74 .] 



SOME BOYS IN AFRICA. 



23I 




UPSET EV A HIPPOPOTAMUS- 



could not get at him. The hyena, he thought, 
was of the same opinion, for it glided away. 

But he soon found there was another reason for 
its moving away. Again a dark form, larger than 
the other, came stealthily towards the tree, and the 
sound that then rang through the forest made Selim 
tremble. It was a terrible roar, deep and long. 
This time his visitor was a lion, and Selim soon 
had a near view of him at the foot of the tree. 
The creature was lashing his tail, and his eyes 
were like coals of fire. Selim sprang back from 
the opening, and seized his gun, though he did not 
think the lion would try to get through that small 
hole. But that was just what he did try to do. 
He leaped up and got his nose through, and 
endeavored to drag himself in. Selim's heart 
almost stood still with fear, but he did not lose 
his wits. He thrust the muzzle of his gun against 
the lion's head and fired, and the great beast fell 
dead outside. 

This was the most dangerous of Selim's adven- 
tures while alone in the forest. After wandering 
about for some days and finding very little to eat, 
he was discovered, faint with hunger, and carried 
to the chief village of the Watuta, where Abdullah 
and the other captives had already arrived. 

The two boys had the good fortune to secure 



the friendship and protection of Kalulu, a boy 
about Selim's age, the adopted son and heir of the 
Watuta king. They were assigned quarters as 
comfortable as the negro cabins afforded, and were 
treated by Kalulu as honored guests, and he enter- 
tained them with various amusements. 

Of these the hunting expeditions were the most 
exciting. And, among the best of them, was the 
hippopotamus hunt. The three boys set out gaily 
one morning for the river Liemba, a short distance 
from the village. They were accompanied by two 
warriors of the tribe, and also by two negro men, 
Simba and Moto, who had formerly been slaves to 
Selim's father, and who, now that the father had 
been slain in battle, resolved not to forsake the 
son, but to watch over and care for him. Simba 
was a giant in size and strength, and Moto was the 
man of brains. He had a very cunning head on 
his shoulders, and could always give good advice. 

The party were well armed. They soon reached 
the river, and getting into a canoe, paddled swiftly 
down the stream to the feeding grounds of the 
hippopotami. They landed at noon upon an 
island, and had just finished their lunch when they 
heard a low, deep bellowing very near them. 
They were on their feet in an instant, and ran 
noiselessly to the edge of the island, and counted 



SOME BOYS IN AFRICA. 



[Feeruaky, 



the heads of a herd of hippopotami quietly enjoy- 
ing the cool, deep waters. 

"Five of them!" cried Kalulu. "Now for 
sport ! " 

They quickly divested themselves of part of their 
clothing, anticipating the possibility of a swim, 
and jumped into the canoe, Simba and Moto taking 
the paddles, and one of the warriors seizing the 



Abdullah, who was wounded by a crocodile but 
rescued by Kalulu, Simba, and Moto. 

After landing and taking care of Abdullah, the 
next proceeding was to hunt for the canoe, which 
had been dragged off by the wounded hippopota- 
mus. It was found among the reeds of the island, 
with the body of the dead hippopotamus still fast- 
ened to it by the harpoon line. Together they 




CRIED MOTO. 



harpoon, to plunge it into the animal that should 
first approach. 

They had not long to wait. A monstrous head 
and neck soon arose out of the water, close to the 
bow of the boat. At the same instant the harpoon 
was shot into the neck. The wounded animal 
immediately sank and swam up the river, dragging 
the boat after him with frightful speed, for the 
rope of the harpoon was fastened to it. But in a 
few minutes the speed slackened, and the boat 
began to float down stream. " Pull back ! " cried 
the harpooner. Simba and Moto dashed the pad- 
dles into the water, but it was too late ; up came 
the gigantic head of the hippopotamus, right under 
the canoe, which was shot into the air, while its 
occupants tumbled heels over head into the 
water. 

They all swam to the shore in safety except 



dragged the huge creature into shallow water, and 
loaded the canoe with part of his flesh, which is 
esteemed a great delicacy. Then they lifted Ab- 
dullah carefully into the boat, and returned to the 
village, where the young Arab soon recovered from 
his wound. 

After some months of this kind of life, the old 
king died, and the boy, Kalulu, was proclaimed 
king. But, being attacked by an army of his 
disaffected subjects, Kalulu was made a prisoner 
and a slave ; and Selim, Abdullah, Simba and 
Moto went with him into slavery in a distant part 
of the country of the Watuta. After a time 
they succeeded in making their escape, and 
together they traveled through the forests and 
jungles, exposed to dangers from men and 
beasts. 

This long iourney of several months is the most 



■874.: 



SOME BOYS IN AFRICA. 



2 33 



interesting part of the story. Simba and Moto 
knew all about the forest, its plants, its animals, 
and its savage tribes, and were good guides and 
guardians for the three boys. 

One evening they formed their camp near a 
stream of water in a beautiful plain, dotted here 
and there with great trees. 

About midnight they were aroused from their 



the grass. Through the gloom they could now 
distinguish his eyes, shining like specks of light. 
Suddenly he turned and confronted them, and, 
with an appalling roar, the savage beast drew 
nearer, until his form was fearfully plain to the 
company watching him. Only a few seconds now 
passed, when it became evident that the lion was 
preparing for a spring. 




MMBA AND THE LEOPARD. 



slumbers by the roar of a lion. The animal was 
evidently not far off, and they were immediately all 

1 on the alert. 

" I see him," whispered Kalulu. " There ! look 
at him ! See that dark form slowly moving past 

: that big tree ! There ! He stops, and looks this 

.way ! " 

"Hush!" whispered Simba. " He is coming. 

:Be ready and sure with your guns ! " 

Meantime the lion had been slowly advancing ; 
but the little party was now perfectly still and ready 
for him. They could faintly discern his form as he 
approached, but his soft, padded feet made no sound 
whatever as they touched the ground. When quite 
near, he stopped, and then they could hear the 
brushing of his tail as he gently switched it over 



" Fire !" was the sharp word of command from 
Moto. 

The three guns blazed out their fire at the 
same instant, lighting up the form of the springing 
lion ; and a savage yell, and a dull, heavy thud upon 
the earth announced that the victory was on the 
side of gunpowder. 

It was some time after this, and when they were 
approaching the end of their long journey, that the 
boys came near losing their good and powerful 
friend, Simba, who was attacked by a leopard. 
With Kalulu's aid, however, the beast was killed. 

The party had many other adventures, but the)' 
finally reached Zanzibar, where they no longer had 
savages, lions and leopards to right, and where we 
must leave them. 



?34 



FOR VERY LITTLE FOLKS. 



[February, 








MY PET LAMB. 

When I was a small boy, I had a nice pet. An old sheep 
had died, and John brought her lamb to the house. It was 
cold, and he said it would die. So he 
gave it to me. 

I put the poor thing on the rug by 
the fire. I gave it some warm milk 

with a spoon. It 

drank some of the 

milk;, and soon it 

got up on its feet and said, "Ma! ma!" 

It was sad to hear it cry so, when the old 

sheep could not come. 

At last it got quite well, and would 

run and play with me. Then it drank 
milk out of a dish. And soon it would eat grass in the 
yard. I had some fine games with my dear pet. I would 
run and hide, and wait for it to find me. Once I went to 
hide by a bank, and fell down a steep place. It was a deep 
ditch, and I could not get out. But the lamb came to find 

me, and stood by the ditch, and cried, 

" Baa ! baa ! ' I think it meant to call 

John. I cried too. Then John came 

and took me out. 

When it was quite 

small, it would butt 

It was in play ; and 
I thought it great fun. I would get 
down on my hands and knees, and butt 
with it. 

But as it grew large, it got to butt quite hard. " Don't 
do so!" I would say; but it did not know it hurt me. So 




me with its head. 




i8 7 4-J 



FOR VERY LITTLE FOLKS. 



235 



when it came to butt me, I would put down my head, and 
let it butt over me. But once, when I went to do so, a 
blade of grass tickled my nose. That made me lift my 
head, and the 
lamb hit me a 
hard blow. 

Then I found 
I had taught 
him a bad trick. 
He would run 
at the boys and 
girls who came 
to the yard, and 
scare and hurt 
them. It was 
fun to him, but 
it was not fun 
to them ! 

So he grew 
to be a big ram, 'X- 
and we called 
his name Dan. 
He was not a 
nice pet any 
more, for he 

would run at all of us, if we came near. So one day we 
thought we would play him a trick. It was this: 

We took some of John's old clothes and stuffed them out 
with straw; we set them up on sticks, and put a big hat on top. 

When he saw the thing, he thought it was some queer old 
man ; so he ran at it with all his might. 

At last Dan got so bad he had to be sold. If you have a pet 
lamb, do not teach him to butt; he will turn out bad if you do. 




236 



JACK-IN -THE- PULPIT. 



[February, 








PMMIfi 



J ACK-IN-THE- PULPIT 



Old 'Probabilities announces that February 
may be expected. All right. Let it come : St. 
Nicholas is ready for it. 

Somebody has written asking Jack to tell you 
everything about St. Valentine's day. What does he 
take me for ? Just as if my poor children would n't 
hear enough about it without their own faithful 
Jack shaking an encyclopaedia at them. Why. 
every newspaper in the country will have a column 
about it, and the readers are respectfully expected 
to let it go in one eye and out of the other, so that 
they '11 be ready to read the account all over again 
next February. No. no ! Jack won't pester you, 
dear friends, with the story of the good saint who 
never dreamed of such a thing as a valentine, nor 
quote old rhymes to you about the birds that went 
a-mating ; but he just hopes you '11 get all the 
valentines you want, and that they '11 be as pretty 
and sweet and lively as the song of the Bob-o'-link. 
So no more at present on that subject. 

THE BOY AND GIRL IN THE MOON. 

Such queer things as the birds do tell me ! 
You have seen the man in the moon, and heard 
his story, perhaps, how he was banished there for 
gathering sticks on the Sabbath day. But I 'm 
told that in Sweden the peasants' children see, in- 
stead of the man, a boy and a girl in the moon, 
bearing between them a pail of water. This is on 
account of an old Scandinavian legend, which 
means a legend known to Sweden and Norway in 
ancient times, when their name was Scandinavia. 
Well, the legend says that Mini, the moon, stole 
these two children while they were drawing water 
from a well. Their names were Hjnki and Bil. 
They were lifted up to the moon along with the 
bucket and the well-pole, and placed where they 
could be seen from the earth. When next you 
look at the round, full moon, remember this story, 



and if you have imagination enough, perhaps you 
will see Hjnki and Bil with their pail of water. 

CAROLINE AND MARY 

Two pretty little girls? No indeed. An English 
sparrow told me about them. Colonel Caroline 
Scott was a very corpulent, very active, very 
gentle, and useful man who, according to a British 
writer, "died a sacrifice to the public in the ser- 
vice of the East India Company," about a hundred 
T^J.^and twenty years ago. There was another man, a 
\ Captain Caroline Scott, famous for his cruel deeds 
/= among the Scotch Highlanders ; but Jack prefers 
fe the Colonel. As for Mary, his last name was Vol- 
taire. He had other Christian names too, and 
these appear to have been the only Christian things 
about him. He had a great head of his own, or 
rather a great brain in his little head : but he was 
wanting in faith, so the poor fellow wrote seventy 
learned books about it. And at last he died from 
taking too big a dose of something to make Jhim 
sleep. 

I hope none of my little Marys will write seventv 
volumes, and be kept awake by such thinkings and 
doubtings as troubled poor Voltaire. 



QUEER TALKING. 

You boys and girls, just before the shirt-collar 
and back-hair age, manage to twist words in a 
comical way. Often I have a good time listening 
to the wee folk who come to our meadow. 

One day a little girl, seeing, in the last part of one 
of her Christmas books, that a sequel to it would 
soon be published, called out to a playmate, " O, 
Kitty ! is n't this nice ? My neii book 's got a squeal 
to it /" 

But she was quite accurate, compared with a 
little bit of a boy, who came to the creek with some 
other children, one day last summer, to look for 
water cresses. 

" I 'm goin' to take a awful lot o' cresses home 
to mamma," he said, trudging along as briskly as 
his fat little legs would allow: "'cause my mam- 
ma's got a Jidgelator, what '11 keep everything as 
cold as ice, to put 'em in. Your mamma got'one?" 

"No, she aint, " answered a tow-headed little 
chap ; " but she 's got a steel egg-beater !" 

"Ho! a leg-beater!" shouted my wee young- 
ster, turning squarely about to look at the speaker. 
" What's that for?" 

" Why, to beat eggs with, you goosey !" 

" Ho !" screeched the little chap, in great scorn. 
"She 'd better look out ! If she goes to beatin' eggs 
she '11 break 'em. Eggs is brittler. than anything. 
Guess you 'most don't know what you 're talkin' 
'bout!" 



t8 7 4-] 



TACK-IN -Til E -PULP IT. 



237 



HOUSEBREAKING AND, BURGLARY. 

What do you think a magpie once told me? He 
said there was a decided difference between house- 
breaking and burglary. I thought he ought to 
know, since the magpie family have no great 
reputation for honesty ; but of course I did n't say 
so, as he was my guest. According to his account, 
burglary is a night-time offence, and house-break- 
ing belongs to the day. He said I 'd find that he 
was right if I looked in the dictionary; but I didn't 
happen to have one by me just then. How is it? 
Jack does n't recommend either of these little prac- 
tices as a profession ; but it 's well to know some- 
thing about them. Young magpie insisted that 
Blackstone, a great fellow among the lawyers, said 
there could be no burglary in the day-time. 

Q'UANTITY OF SALT IN THE OCEAN. 

Everybody knows that the waters of the ocean 
are very salt to the taste : but how many of you 
have thought of the immense quantities of salts of 
different kinds that must be in the Atlantic and the 
Pacific to give a flavor to such enormous bodies of 
water ? 

Scientific men have thought about it ; and one 
of them (Captain Maury) has told us that if all the 
various salts of these oceans could be separated from 
the water and spread out equally over the northern 
half of this continent, they would form a covering 
one mile _ deep. So heavy would be this mass of 
salts that all the mechanical inventions of man, 
aided by all the steam and all the water power in 
the world, could not move it so much as one inch 
in even centuries of time. 

Dear me ! I 'm glad Jack-in-the-Pulpits are not 
marine plants. We 'd be in pretty pickle if we 
were. 

A HINDOO LETTER. 

You all have heard of the late Governor Seward, 
I suppose, and how, though he was an old man, 
he made a journey around the world, and after- 
ward wrote a big book about it Did you ever 
hear of the letter he received from a Maharajah of 
Hindostan, the richest and one of the most distin- 
guished men of the country ? This letter was only 
a friendly line to Governor Seward, requesting the 
honor of a visit; but think of the style ! It was 
written by the great Maharajah's secretary, in 
beautiful Arabic characters, on gilt paper. The 
envelope was not like those used in America, but 
was a bag of the finest kincob j that is, a kind of 
silk, woven stiff with golden threads, and costing 
about seventy-five dollars a yard. The bag and 
the letter within it were perfumed with costly attar 
of roses, and the whole was tied with a silken cord, 
on which was suspended the great waxen seal of 



the kingdom, principality, or state of Puttenla. 
This seal alone weighed four ounces. 

Somebody sent President Grant a postal card 
the other day. I wonder what His Magnificent 
Highness the Maharajah would think of that. 

COLD WEATHER TALK. 

I HAD a snow-bird reception not long ago. My ! 
how the little creatures did hop about from one 
subject to another ! They left my head in a whirl ; 
but I 'm inclined to think there 's reason in a good 
deal that they told me. For instance, it appears 
that troops of boys and girls are made ill now-a- 
days by throwing off their coats and cloaks when 
overheated in skating, and then sitting down to 
rest without first putting them on again, — kneeling 
down on the cold ice to put on their skates, too ! 
It does n't seem possible ; but I 've actually seen 
youngsters do it ! 

Fortunate, is n't it? that ice, in forming, fills 
itself full of air needles, in some way, so that it is 
light enough to float on the water. If it was n't for 
this, it would sink as fast as it formed, and the 
lakes and rivers would soon be solid ice from top to 
bottom, and then ten suns could n't melt them. 

By the way, we had quite a discussion as to why 
icebergs turn over as they do. Some of us held 
that an iceberg, as its top melted, had nothing to 
do but settle itself in the water, according to its 
own weight and shape, and others of us held that 
it appeared to be otherwise. I forgot which side I 
was on. What do you think about it, my dears ? 

Another subject came up, which I promised to 
mention : The birds take it very kindly when chil- 
dren throw out crumbs for them this cold weather. 

EIGHT NEW CONUNDRUMS. 

HERE are some brand-new conundrums from my 
friend Jack Daw : 

Who is our most distant relation ? Our Aunt 
Tipodes. 

Why should a Spaniard be the most enduring 
of mortals ? Because he loves Spain. 

Why are E and A like good people ? Because 
they meet in heaven. 

When is a poor white like a Guinea negro ? 
When he lives in Ashantee. 

When is an artist a very poor artist ? When he 
can't draw a check. 

What is the difference between an article put up 
at auction and sin ? One is bid for, and the other 
forbid. 

Why does one become a spiritualist in cold 
weather ? Because he then believes in wrappings. 

When a man turns his horses to pasture, what 
color does he change them to? He turns them in 
to graze (grays). 



2 3 8 



MISCHIEF IN THE STUDIO. 



[ February, 



MISCHIEF IN THE STUDIO. 

A Pantomime in Two Scenes. 
By G. B. Bartlett. 



w«, white wig, 



CHARACTERS. 

A cross old Artist, in dressing 
and spectacles. 

Ernest (his son), in linen blouse and knee breeches. 

Claribel, a poor peasant girl, beloved by Ernest, 
dressed in -white -waist, bodice, red skirt. 

A Milkman, in straw hat and shirt sleeves. 

A Boy and a Girl, disguised as statues of Hercu- 
les and the Fisher Maiden. 

The statues are draped in cotton sheets, the hands 
and arms covered with white gloves sewed upon old 
stocking-legs, the faces chalked with lily white ; the boy 
has a wig made of cotton-wadding, the girl has a similar 
one ornamented with braids of cotton flannel. He holds 
a club made of cotton cloth stuffed with rags ; she holds 
a fishing-pole covered with cloth, with a white twine 
line and a pin hook on the end of it. 

Before putting on his wig, the artist must have his 
head covered with a tight-fitting oiled-silk cap, and he 
uses a large ear-trumpet. The milkman has a can of 
chalk and water, which is sometimes used to imitate 
milk, and a quart measure. 

The room is arranged to resemble a studio ; a large 
easy-chair in centre of the room, at the left of which is 
a table covered with a cloth. Directly behind the table 
is an easel holding a picture-frame, upon the t ack side 
of which is tacked a dark brown cambric curtain, fastened 
only at the top edge of the frame on the back side, so 
arranged that it may be lifted up at the bottom to admit 
a person who thus represents a picture, the body being 
concealed by the table which stands close before the 
easel. A large picture of a cat and a hideous face are 
pasted upon a sheet of pasteboard, the edges of which 
are cut out to fit the picture. The person who has stood 
for the picture can easily stoop behind the table and 
pass up the pictures behind the frame and in front of'the 
hanging curtain, so that the pictures will change in- 
stantly. The statues each stand in the two back corners 
of the room, each upon a table covered with a sheet; 
their eyes must be closed, and they must stand as still 
as possible. A palette and a few brushes lie upon the 
table in front of the easel, and a few books and pieces of 
music in confusion; also, a plate and two cups and sau- 
cers. 

If an easel is not at hand, two strips of wood four 
inches wide, eight feet long, nailed at the top in the form 
of a letter A, with a cross-bar to hold the picture, will do 
as well. The lower edge of the picture may rest on the 
back edge of the table, and must be no higher. 



The Pantomime. 

■ SCENE I. 

The Artist enters ; moves cautiously around as it 

listening for some one; thinks he hears footsteps; hides 

behind the table, so that the large end of his ear- trumpet 



rests upon it, while the small end is at his ear. Milk- 
man enters, measures a quart of milk, fills the cups and 
looks around for a dish to hold the rest, sees trumpet, 
looks pleased, pours the milk into it. Artist jumps up, 
beats him with the trumpet, and drives him from the 
room, still pursuing him. 

Enter Ernest and Claribel. She sits down in the 
chair, and he offers to paint her portrait, and pretends to 
paint on the brown cambric curtain, after looking at her 
very lovingly. After painting a few moments, he goes 
up to Claribel and kneels, as if asking her to be his 
wife. The Artist enters, is very angry, and parts 
them, leading Claribel out by one door and his son by 
the other. They seem very sad, and go very unwillingly. 
He begins to paint ; Ernest enters, and begs him to 
consent ; he shakes his head, and stamps his foot as if 
very angry, and chases his son out. 

SCENE II. 

Same as before, except that Claribel stands in the 
frame, and Ernest gazes upon the picture with delight. 
The Artist enters; drags him away from the easel by 
the left hand. While their backs are turned away from 
the picture, Claribel stoops behind the table and 
pushes up the picture of the cat into the frame in her 
place, so that when the Artist reproves Ernest for 
painting the portrait of his love, they turn and behold 
the change. Both show surprise and fear, for whenever 
the Artist turns away the picture is altered; sometimes 
the young lady's face, and sometimes one of the other 
pictures appears. The Artist seems astonished, and 
gradually becomes much alarmed. 

He passes by the statue of Hercules, and is pros- 
trated by a blow from his club ; sitting upon the floor, 
he looks up and the statue is immovable. This action 
is repeated each time the Artist gets up, which may 
occur twice. Ernest passes behind him, fastens the 
pin hook to his wig, and the Artist beholds it sailing 
through the air on the statue's fish-pole. He seems 
perfectly amazed, and points from one statue to the 
other, as if asking the reason for their strange behavior. 
Ernest kneels, and places his hand on his heart, and 
points from the picture to the statues, as if to say that all 
will be right if he is allowed to have CLARIBEL, whose por- 
trait now appears again in the frame. The Artist nods 
his assent. CLARIBEL comes out from behind the frame; 
Ernest takes her hand, and shakes hands with each of 
the statues to show that they are confederates. 

Ernest and Claribel kneel before the Artist in 
the centre of the room. He joins their hands, and holds 
his ear-trumpet above them as if in blessing. The 
statues bow and the curtain falls. 



i8 7 4-J 



THE RIDDLE BOX. 



239 



THE RIDDLE BOX. 



REBUS, No. 1. 



CHARADE. 




On board of a steamer, at latitude, 40 35' N. ; longitude, 30 n' 
west from Greenwich, you can see the above. 



My first, a holy man or maid, 

Sought peace in hermit cell; 
My second, by the Norsemen bold, 

Was thought in streams to dwell. 
My third, in our surprise or joy, 

Is but an exclamation ; 
My last in kirtle and in snood, 

Is of the Scottish nation. 
My whole has been to children dear 

For many a Christmas season ; 
And if I fail to please them now, 

I've neither rhyme nor reason. 

QUERIES. 

1. Out of what two words, containing 
not more than eleven letters, can you get 
over twenty pronouns ? 

2. Out of what word of five letters can 
you get eight verbs ? 



A CHESS PUZZLE. 
Percy Starre sends this ingenious chess puzzle, 
found pasted on the back of an old Chess Book. By 
beginning at the right word, and going from square to 
square as a knight moves, he has found eight lines of 
poetry. 



board 


est 


were 


rious * 


nev 


thy 


might 


tor 


umphs 


vie 


with 


on 


the 


hail 


" 


troops 


lead 


quer'd 


price 


rals 


glo 


ier 


VIC 


thou 


to 


tri 


the 


man 


h is 


gene 


to 


er 


che 


ed 


won 


, lf 


on 


by 


than 


less 


his 


ry 


up 


wars 


y 


blood 


ring 


ty 


aid 


while 


mor 


le 


lone 


tain 


blood 


na 


hail 


on 


un 


thou 


phy 


po 




cer 



REBUS, No. 2. 





CONCEALED PROVERB. 

Come, sister, with me, where the daisies grow ; 
If there 's nothing to hinder, let us go ; 

But a little time we will stay. 
There 's a wood that 's full of fairies and elves, 
We can stay there awhile to rest ourselves ; 

It is only a little way. 

-CULPRIT FAY" ENIGMA. 

The whole, composed of 31 letters, shows what the 
Lily-King's throne stood upon. 

My 17. 5, 11, 24, 2, was the name of the court where 
the culprit, Fay, was tried. 

My 12, 4. 25, 19, was what the "shapes of air around 
him cast." 

My 25, I, 4, 16, 17, iS, was what his poor little wings 
were. 

My 9, 3, S, 24, 14, 26, 27, worked him much evil. 

My 3, 23, 21, 3, 13, 24, 27, 29, was one of the crea- 
tures that " stunned his ears." 

My 11, 30, 26, 18, shows how he went " to the beach 
again." 

My 9, 28, 17, 6, 31, was his boat. 

My 22, 20, 7, 18, was his steed. 

My 27, 3, 10, 19, 15, 26, 18, was the complexion of 
said steed. 



PARAPHRASE. 

White parts of speech 
churned cream negative equal- 
ity clips. 



240 



THE RIDDLE BOX. 



[Febrl'Ar 



REBUS, No. 3. 




J/loJhXxS 



THREE EASY CHARADES. 

1. My first is a part of the human frame ; 
My second an exercise or a game ; 
My whole a sin. a loss, and a shame. 

2. Find my first, a feature, my second, a sphere, 
And my whole a part of my first will appear. 

3. My first is a verb in the present tense ; 

My second a verb in the past ; 
My whole is a pretty play, and hence. 
Some child will guess it at last. 



TEN CONCEALED RIVERS. 

Run, Ida, arouse Alfred, and tell him therels a horse 
in Ed's corn-field, a grizzly bear on his potato-patch in 
the yard, and one rather fat deer in the corner next to 
the barn, on the other side of the fence. 



DIAMOND PUZZLE 

The 4th, with his 6th 
awoke the 5th. Her husban 
rushed out of the 3d, seize; 
the 2d, and with a 7th sen 
it at the offender's head 
it stunned him, and 1st ami 
9th (combined) carried hin 
8th for dinner. The - mai 
tore his coat in the scuffle 
and the 5th, having the per 
pendicular letters in hei 
pocket, mended it for him. 



DECAPITATIONS. 

Fill the first blank with the complete word, and 
decapitate at each succeeding blank. 

Example. — He tried to (1) himself for the 

(2), but came within an (3) of giving it up. 

(1) brace, (2) race, (3) ace. 

1. Hunting for my 

Made me very 

And I scarcely 

Anything 

2. If you subject to you may it. 

3. Please give the the meal once. 

PUZZLES. 

1. I have wings and I fly, though I 'm not called a bird. 

2. I am part of a hundred (e'en more than the third). 

3. I am " A Number I " with the most of mankind. 

4. In France and in Germany me you will find. 

5. My fifth in your hand you may frequently see. 
And my whole it is dreary and wretched to be. 



ANSWERS TO RIDDLES IN THE JANUARY NUMBER. 

Rebus.—" Old Mother Hubbard. 
Went to the cupboard, 
To get her poor dog a bone." 

Numerical Enigma. — A merry, merry Christmas. 

Charade. — Patrimony. 

•Syncopation. — Peony pony. 

Cross Word. — Glyptodon. 

Rebus. — " A penny in pity may be a dollar in grace." 

Rebus. — "Think well of the bridge that carries you safely over." 

Hidden Parts of a Building. — i. — Beam. 2.— Sash. 3. — 
Eaves. 4— Cleat 5.— Sill. 6— Latch. 7.— Shelf. 8.— Post. 

Puzzle. — Chain, china, chin. 

Ellipses. — 1— Mopes, poems. 2. — Stare, tears. 3. — Alert, alter. 
4. — Sabre, bears. 5. — Words, sword. 6 — Snipe, pines. 7. — Horse, 
shore. 8. — Latent, talent. 

Star Puzzle : 

<j * ^ 

TAP PAT 

S> H -1> 

Decapitation'.— Glove, love. 
Charade, No. 2. — Firefly. 

Correct answers to puzzles in St. Nicholas have been received 
.from L Phelps. " Wrentham.'' Bessie Pedder, Saidie F. Davis, 





M E 




M A 




A L 


197. — Solomon. 




198. — 1. — Ebro. 2. 
Parana. 


— Dwina. 


199. — Caledonians. 




200. — Continue. 





Lettie Brown. Annie Groce, Gracie Reed, Joseph Bird. Minnie E. 
Thomas, Arthur G. S., Christine, F. B. N., Noddy Boffin, John B. 
Crawford, Jr., Frank B. Taylor, W. C. Ford and Frank S. Palfrey. 

A ns^vers to Riddles in December Number of " , Ow,' Young Folks." 

187.— T 



188. — Clock, lock, rock, sock. 

189. — "Aim to cancel all base aspirations." 

190 — London. 

191.— Pin. Kin. Tin. Sin. Din. Win. Bin. Fin. Gin. 

192. — The damask rose. 

193. — Lake, bake, Jake, cake, make, rake, take. 

194. — Mastodon. 

195. — " Walter on a spree." 

196. — E M M A 



4. — Loire. 5.— 



Sophie and William Winslow send answers to every puzzle in 
the December number of " Our Young Folks," and all are correct 
excepting 196 and 197. 



'$^\ rp J 




EDWARD JENNER. 



. 



ST. NICHOLAS. 



Vol. I. 



MARCH, 1874. 



No. 5. 



EDWARD JENNER 

By Clarence Cook.. 



As they open the bright pages of this number of 
St. NICHOLAS, I hear the voices of many thousand 
children piping out, when they see this frontispiece, 
— " Who is he ? "—"Who are they ? "— " What is 
that naughty man doing to that poor little boy ? " 
And my Tom here, with his long, fair curls tum- 
bled about his chubby face, and who thinks himself 
a sailor because he has on a blue sailor-suit, with 
anchors on the collar, wants to know " if that big 
man is going to tattoo the little naked boy ? " 

Now, this is not a naughty man at all, but a 
good man — a good, kind-hearted man. And he 
•does not mean to hurt the little boy a bit. If you 
look sharp, you will see the boy is a brave chap. 
He is a little scared, to be sure ; but he is as read)' 
to laugh as to cry. The boy's name is Phipps. 
But you shall hear. 

The picture is taken from a statue of a celebrated 
man, by Monteverde, an Italian sculptor, which 
was in the Vienna Exposition of last -summer. The 
man's name is Jenner — Dr. Edward Jenner. It is 
known over the whole civilized world, and when- 
ever it is spoken, some one is pretty sure to think 
a grateful thought about the man who ow^ned it, 
for he made a discovery that has saved the lives 
of thousands of men, women, and children. I sup- 
pose there never lived a man who was the means 
of saving so many people from dying, and from 
dying by a horrible disease, as Dr. Jenner. 

Edward Jenner was born in Berkeley, Gloucester- 
shire, England, May 17, 1749, nearly 125 years 
ago. His father was a well-to-do clergyman, and 
Edward was brought up in comfort, and well 
taught. His father died when he was only five 
years old ; but his elder brother, who was also a 
•clergyman, took care of him, and was as good as a 

VOL. I. — 16. 



father to him. Edward Jenner was very fond of 
the country, and nearly all his life was spent in the 
neighborhood of the beautiful Vale of Gloucester, 
where he had the good fortune to be born. From 
a child, he showed a strong love of nature, — was 
ever observing and watching what was going on 
about him. He watched the birds so well, that 
what made his name first heard of in the world 
was an account he wrote of the cuckoo, a shy bird 
with strange habits, about whom very little was 
known before. Edward Jenner told people what 
he had seen with his own eyes of the habits of this 
bird ; and what he had to tell was very curious, 
and showed a power for patient observation, and a 
skill in reasoning, that are certainly very un- 
common. At that time people were just beginning 
to study the stones and rocks of which the earth is 
built ; and here, again, Edward Jenner was able to 
be of great help, for the part of England where he 
lived was rich in fossils ; and when he was still a 
boy, he had been attracted by these curious things, 
and had collected the best specimens, and studied 
over them, and thought about them, until, at last, 
he had come to understand something of their his- 
tory, while few other people in the world at that 
time knew anything about the wonderful story 
these fossils have to tell. 

While Edward Jenner was a young man, working 
and studying in a surgeon's office in a town called 
Sodbury, near Bristol, which is the chief town of 
Gloucestershire, he used to hear a good deal of talk 
about the small-pox. This disease makes great 
trouble in our own time, and when it is prevalent 
there is hardly any sickness people are more afraid 
of; but it is not so bad now-a-days as it was in 
Jenner's time. It was a frightful plague, and car- 



242 



EDWARD JENNER. 



[Marc 



ried off in England alone, it is said, 45,000 people 
every year ! Kings died of it, queens, princes, 
princesses, the rich and the poor, the high and the 
low, the learned and the ignorant. When it ap- 
peared in an army, it often slew more than the 
sword, and our soldiers suffered grievously from this 
pestilence in the beginning of the War of Inde- 
pendence. 

You may believe that many wise heads and kind 
hearts were trying to find out a way to fight this 
disease. Thirty-one years before Edward Jenner 
was born, a bright, witty lady, with a sharp tongue 
but a good heart, — Lady Mary Wortley Montague, 
— had found that in Turkey, where the small-pox 
raged terribly ever)' year, they had a way of treating 
well people so as to give them the disease, but in a 
lighter and less dangerous form than if they took it 
in the common way. Well persons were willing to be 
made ill in this way, because they knew that small- 
pox very rarely comes to a person more than once. 
This was called inoculation, and Lady Mary, to 
show her faith, had her own son inoculated in 
1 718, and with perfect success. This was thought 
a great discovery, and so it was, for she had brought 
to notice a great principle ; but something was 
wanting, — no one knew what, — only inoculation 
did not stop the small-pox, nor greatly check it, for 
soon it was raging as badly as ever. 

It may have been fifty years after Lady Mary's 
brave experiment upon her son, that while Edward 
Jenner was an apprentice in that surgeon's office 
at Sodbury, a young milkmaid came in to the 
surgery one day, and happening to hear the med- 
ical men talking about the small-pox, she said that 
she was not afraid of catching it, for she had had 
the cow-pox. Little she knew what important 
words she had spoken ; and, indeed, I suppose they 
only were important because an observing, think- 
ing, quick-witted young man stood by to hear 
them. 

The cow-pox is a disease of the eruptive kind, 
that shows itself on the udders of cows, and is 
sometimes caught by the people who are milking 
them. It is generally a mild disease, from which 
the cow suffers little, and the human being does 
not suffer seriously, being lightly ill for only a few 
days. Beside, it is not communicated as the small- 
pox is, by simply coming near the person who is ill 
with that disease ; the matter that is in the little 
blisters on the cow's udder must get of itself under 
the skin of a human being, or be put under it, before 
it can be communicated. Now, it seems it had been 
known for many years in the grazing districts 01 
England, that if this were done, and the human 
being had the cow-pox, there was little or no danger 
for him from the small-pox. And the farmers had 
been giving themselves the cow-pox, and giving it 



to their families, and thus keeping the dreade 
small-pox at a safe distance, and nobo'dy outsid 
the farming district seems to have been the wise 
for it. And respectable physicians, young and old 
had been trundling about the country in their gigs, 
and looking wise, and shaking their heads over thi 
small-pox, and never suspecting that the methoi' 
of preventing it was all the time in use under thei i 
very eyes. How long this would have gone 01" 
who can tell, if thoughtful Edward Jenner had no; 
listened to what the milkmaid said that morning ii 
the surgery ? But it set him thinking, in his slow 
steady, earnest way ; and the idea once seized, thai 
here was the long-desired prevention, he nevei 
lost sight of it until he had proved it beyonci 
a doubt. He thought about it so constantly, and 
talked about it so much, that his very friends, — and) 
he had friends in all the country-side who loved} 
his company, — became tired of hearing him, and 1 ! 
laughed at him for his forever talking about the) 
cow-pox and the small-pox. The medical men and| 
scientific men in that country had a club, and! 
Jenner would insist so on bringing in his hobby oni 
all occasions, that, half in joke and half in earnest, I 
a law was made that neither the small-pox nor cow- j 
pox should ever be mentioned at their meetings ! J 



But Edward Jenner was too much in earnest to 
be discouraged by snubs of this kind, and he I 
kept on thinking and observing for twenty-six 
years ; and at last, having satisfied himself that vac- 
cinating for the small-pox was the true remedy, he 
made his first experiment on the 14th of May, 
1796, inoculating a boy by the name of Phipps in 
the arm, from a pustule on the hand of a young 
woman who had taken the cow-pox from her mas- 
ter's cows. This was called vaccination, a word 
made from " vacca," the Latin word for "cow." 
Phipps had the cow-pox, and got well over it. 
Then, on the 1st of July, Jenner inoculated him 
for the small-pox, and, as he had predicted, Phipps- 
did not take the disease. 

This little boy, then, is Phipps, — bless him ! He 
is a sturdy youngster, and does not look as pleased 
as he might at the honor that is being done him ! 
Good Dr. Jenner has taken him out of his little bed 
and undressed him, so as the better to see him, and 
make sure that he is a healthy specimen of the 
baby species. He has got Phipps so nicely fixed 
that he cannot move, and yet he holds him with 
the utmost gentleness, so that Phipps has no excuse 
for crying. How earnest the sturdy, honest doctor 
is in his work ! Look in his face and you will see 
that, though he is anxious about the result of his 
twenty-six years' study, yet he has a strong confi- 
dence too, and believes that he has been led into' 
the way of truth. 

Dr. Jenner made no secret of his great discovery, 



J874-] 



HOW THE BULLFINCH IS TAUGHT TO SING. 



243 



— tried to get no patent for it, — but freely gave it to 
the world. The Government, however, rewarded 
him handsomely, giving him _£io,ooo in 1802, and 
_£20,ooo five years later, in 1807. But he did not 
care for money, and he did not work for fame, so 
he continued to live quietly in his pleasant country 
home, amid his old friends and the old scenes, 
until his sudden, peaceful death in February, 1823, 
in the seventy-fourth year of his age. Few men 
have lived so happily, or have done so much good, 



yet it is fifty years after his death, and not in his 
England, but in far-away Italy, that gratitude to 
his memory is spoken in a statue ! 

Since this discovery of vaccination, the terrors of 
small-pox have nearly disappeared, and with good 
nursing, intelligent physicians are not much afraid 
of it. In many countries the government obliges 
every person to be vaccinated, and those who can- 
not pay a doctor are vaccinated free of charge at 
the public dispensaries. 



HOW THE BULLFINCH IS TAUGHT TO SING. 



By R. E. Hale. 



Boys and girls are not the only little folk who 
attend singing classes, as you shall know when you 
hear about the piping bullfinch. 

In shape and size this bullfinch is somewhat 
like the sparrows in our city parks, but he has a 
very different head. The sparrow, you know, has 
a trim, quick little pate of his own. Not so the bull- 




CAUGHT THE TUNE ! 



finch. His is a clumsy affair— in fact, he has a sort 
of " bull " head and neck ; so, you see, he is well 
named. Besides, his body is nearly as black as a 
coal, and his throat is as red as if the coal were on 



fire. He is not naturally a singer, nor is he half so 
clever as our American mocking-bird. In fact, he 
seems rather stupid, but he is willing to learn ; and 
so it happens that if you persevere long enough you 
can teach him to sing a tune. 

The country people of Germany have found this 
out. There the peasants take great delight in train- 
ing bullfinches. Their 
pupils, not being very 
bright, as I said before, 
are stupidly hopping 
about their cages, when 
suddenly they hear a 
tune played upon a vio- 
lin. They prick up their 
ears, — or would do so 
if they could, — and be- 
gin to listen, quite un- 
conscious that that very 
same violin has been 
playing that very same 
tune for about a week 
without their noticing 
it. But it is something 
to catch their atten- 
tion. Day after day, 
for months, the patient 
teacher goes over and 
over the same tune to 
the listening birds until 
human listeners begin 
to wonder which will get 
crazy first, the bullfinch 
or the player. But by 
and by the birds begin 
to pick up the air, piping 
the simple parts at first, and taking up note after 
note until, at last, they know the whole thing by 
heart. Sometimes a rustic father spends half his 
time all winter teaching one little patient bird, and 



244 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



[March 



the children look on with the greatest interest. Or 
a boy will undertake the task, and when he at last 
succeeds, his sisters look upon him as the most 
wonderful fellow in the world ; and they cry in real 
earnest when the wonderful boy carries his pupil to 
town to be sold ; for sold these bullfinches are sure 
to be as soon as they are taught, or else exhibited 
by their owners as street singers. Sometimes bird- 
teachers are known far and wide for their skill and 
success ; and at Freiburg, in Baden, and small vil- 
lages on the outskirts of the Black Forest, bullfinch- 
training is practiced as a regular business. In such 



casesasmall hurdy-gurdy, or "bird organ" is usedj 
as being less difficult and tiresome than the violin 
and, instead of training one bird, they teach th< 
same tune to a class of ten or a dozen. 

Generally, the birds are sent to London or Paris,! 
where, if they have learned their lessons thorough- \ 
ly, they are bought by rich folk, put into beautiful; 
cages and treated as pets, whilst other bullfinches, 1 
having trifled away their school-days and only half 
learned their tune, live a vagrant life around the 1 
markets, belonging to nobody, and picking u,pj 
their dinner as best they can. 






WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



By Frank R. Stockton. 



Chapter X. 

A MEETING ON THE ROAD. 

Some weeks before the little affair between 
Blinks and Holly, related in our last chapter, Harry 
and Kate took a ride over to the railroad station. 

During the winter, Harry had frequently gone 
over on horseback to attend to the payments for 
his wood ; and now that the roads were in fit con- 
dition for carriage travel, he was glad to have an 
opportunity to take the buggy and give Kate a 
ride. 

For some days previously Crooked Creek had 
been "up;" that is, the spring rains had caused 
it to overflow, and all travel across it had been sus- 
pended. The bridges on such occasions, — and 
Crooked Creek had a bad habit of being "up" 
several times in the course of a year, — were covered, 
and the lowlands were under water for a consider- 
able distance on each side of the stream. There 
were so few boats on the creek, and the current, in 
times of freshets, was so strong, that ferriage was 
seldom thought of. In consequence of this state 
of affairs Harry had not heard from his wood- 
cutters for more than a week, as they had not 
been able to cross the creek to their homes. It 
was, therefore, as much to see how they were get- 
ting along as to attend to financial matters that he 
took this trip. 

It was a fine, bright day in very early spring, and 
old Seliiri trotted on quite gaily. Before very long 
they overtook Miles Jackson, jogging along on a 
little bay horse. 

Miles was a black man ; very sober and sedate, 
who, for years, had carried the mail twice a week 



from a station further up the railroad to the village. 
But he was not a mail-carrier now. His em- 
ployer, a white man, who had the contract for car- 
rying the mails, had also gone into another business 
which involved letter-carrying. 

A few miles back from the village of Akeville, 
where the Loudons lived, was a mica mine, which 
had recently been bought, and was now worked by 
a company from the North. This mica (the semi- 
transparent substance that is set into stove doors), 
proved to be very plentiful and valuable, and the 
company had a great deal of business on their 
hands. It was frequently necessary to send mes- 
sages and letters to the North, and these were al- 
ways carried over to the station on the other side 
of Crooked Creek, where there was a daily mail 
and a telegraph office. The contract to carry these 
letters and messages to and from the mines had 
been given to Miles' employer, and the steady 
negro man had been taken off the mail-route to at- 
tend to this new business. 

" Well, Miles," said Harry, as he overtook him. 
" How do you like riding on this road?" 

"How d' y', Mah'sr Harry? How d' y', Miss 
Kate? " said the colored man, touching his hat and 
riding up on the side of the road to let them pass. 
"I do' know how I likes it yit, Mah'sr Harry. 
Don't seem 'xactly nat'ral after ridin' de oder road 
so long !" 

"You have a pretty big letter-bag there," said 
Harry. 

" Dat 's so," said Miles; "but 't aint dis big 
ebery day. Sence de creek 's been up I haint been 
able to git across, and dere 's piles o' letters to go 
ober to-day." 



i8 7 4-) 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



245 



"It must make it rather bad for the company 
when the creek rises in this way," said Harry. 

" Dat 's so," answered Miles. " Dey gits in a 
heap o' trubble when dey can't send dere letters 
and git 'em. Though 't aint so many letters dey 
sends as telegraphs." 

" It 's a pity they could n't have had their mine 
on the other side," remarked Kate. 

" Dat 's so, Miss Kate," said Miles, gravely. "1 
reckon dey did n't know about de creek's gittin' up 
so often, or dey 'd dug dere mine on de oder side." 

Harry and Kate laughed and drove on. 

They soon reached Mr. Loudon's woods, but 
found no wood-cutters. 

When they arrived at the station they saw Dick 
Ford and John Walker on the store-porch. 

Harry soon discovered that no wood had been 
cut for several days, because the creek was up. 

" What had that to do with it ? " asked Harry. 

" Why, you see, Mah'sr Harry," said John 
Walker, " de creek was mighty high, and dere was 
no knowin' how things ud turn out. So we thought 
we 'd jist wait and see." 

" So you 've been here all the time ? " 

" Yes, sir; been h'yar all de time. Could n't go 
home, you know." 

Harry was very sorry to hear of this lost time, 
for he knew that his wood-cutting would come to 
an end as soon as the season was sufficiently ad- 
vanced to give the men an opportunity of hiring 
themselves for farm-work ; but it was of no use to 
talk any more about it ; and so, after depositing 
Kate at the post-office, where the post-mistress, 
who knew her well, gave her a nice little " snack " 
of buttermilk, cold fried chicken and " light-bread," 
he went to the station and transacted his business. 
He had not been there for some weeks, and he 
found quite a satisfactory sum of money due him, 
in spite of the holiday his men had taken. He then 
arranged with Dick and John to work on for a week 
or two longer, — if "nothing happened," — and after 
attending to some commissions for the family, he 
and Kate set out for home. 

But nothing they had done that day was of so 
much importance as their meeting with Miles turned 
out to be. 

Chapter XI. 

ROB. 

Blinks was not the only dog on the Loudon 
place. There was another one, a much larger fel- 
low, named Rob. 

Rob was a big puppy, in the first place, and then 
he grew up to be a tall, long-legged dog, who was 
not only very fond of Harry and Kate but of almost 
everybody else. In time he filled out and became 



rather more shapely, but he was always an ungainly 
dog, — " too big for his size," as Harry put it. 

It was supposed that Rob was partly bloodhound, 
but how much of him was bloodhound it would 
have been very difficult to say. Kate thought it 
was only his ears. They resembled the ears of a 
picture of a beautiful African bloodhound that she 
had in a book. At all events Rob showed no signs 
of any fighting ancestry. He was as gentle as a 
calf. Even Blinks was a better watch-dog. But 
then. Rob was only a year old, and he might im- 
prove in time. 

But, in spite of his general inutility, Rob was a 
capital companion on a country ramble. 

And so it happened, one bright day towards the 
close of April, that he and Harry and Kate went 
out together into the woods, beyond Aunt Matilda's 
cabin. Kate's objects in taking the walk were wild 
flowers and general Spring investigations into the 
condition of the woods ; but Harry had an eye to 
business, although to hear him talk you would have 
supposed that he thought as much about ferns and 
flowers as Kate did. 

Harry had an idea that it might possibly be a 
good thing to hire negroes that year to pick sumac 
for him. He was not certain that he could make 
it pay, but it was on his mind to such a degree that 
he took a great interest in the sumac bushes, and 
hunted about the edges of the woods, where the 
bushes were generally found, to see what was the 
prospect for a large crop of leaves that year. 

They were in the woods, about a mile from Aunt 
Matilda's cabin, and not very far from a road, when 
they separated for a short time. Harry went on 
ahead, continuing his investigations, while Kate re- 
mained in a little open glade, where she found 
some flowers that she determined to dig up by the 
roots and transplant into her garden at home. 

While she was at work she heard a heavy step 
behind her, and, looking up, she saw a tall man 
standing by her. He had red hair, a red face, a 
red bristling moustache, and big red hands. 

" How d' ye do ? " said the man. 

Kate stood up, with the plants, which she had 
just succeeded in getting out of the ground, in her 
apron. 

" Good morning, sir," said she. 

The man looked at her from head to foot, and 
then he said, " Shake hands ! " holding out his 
big red hand. 

But Kate did not offer to take it. 

"Did n't you hear me?" said he. "I said, 
' Shake hands.' " 

" I heard you," said Kate. 

" Well, why don't you do it, then ? " 

Kate did not answer, and the man repeated his 
question. 



246 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



[March. 



''Well then, if I must tell you," said she; " in 
the first place, I don't know you ; and, then, I 'd 
rather not shake hands with you, anyway, because 
your hands are so dirty." 

This might not have been very polite in Kate, 
but she was a straightforward girl, and the man's 
hands were very dirty indeed, although water was 
to be had in such abundance. 

" What 's your name ? " said the man, with his 
face considerably redder than before. , 

" Kate Loudon," said the girl. 

'"Oh, ho ! Loudon, is it? Well, Kate Loudon, 
if my hand 's too dirty to shake, you '11 find it is n't 
too dirty to box your ears." 

Kate turned pale and shrank back against a tree. 
She gave a hurried glance into the woods, and then 
she called out, as loudly as she could : 

''Harry ! " 

The man, who had made a step towards her, 
now stopped and looked around, as if he would 
like to know who Harry was, before going any fur- 
ther. 

Just then, Harry, who had heard Kate's call, 
came running up. 

When the man saw him he seemed relieved, and 
a curious smile stretched itself beneath his bristling 
red moustache. 

" What 's the matter? " cried Harry. 

" Oh, Harry ! " Kate exclaimed, as she ran to 
him. 

" Matter ? " said the man. " The matter 's this, 
I 'm going to box her ears." 

" Whose ears ? " 

" That girl's," replied the red-faced man, mov- 
ing towards Kate. , 

" My sister ! Not much ! " 

And Harry stepped between Kate and the man. 

The man stood and looked at him, and he looked 
very angrily, too. 

But Harry stood bravely before his sister. His 
face was flushed and his breath came quickly, 
though he was not frightened, not a whit ! 

And yet there was absolutely nothing that he 
could do. He had not his gun with him ; he had 
not even a stick in his hand, and a stick would 
have been of little use against such a strong man 
as that, who could have taken Harry in his big red 
hands and have thrown him over the highest fence 
in the county. 

But for all diat, the boy stood boldly up before 
his sister. 

The man looked at him without a word, and 
then he stepped aside towards a small dogwood 
bush. 

For an instant, Harry thought that they might 
run away; but it was only for an instant. That 
long-legged man could catch them before they 



had gone a dozen yards, — at least he could catch 
Kate. 

The man took out a knife and cut a long and 
tolerably thick switch from the bush. Then he cut 
off the smaller end and began to trim away the 
twigs and leaves. 

While doing this he looked at Harry, and said 

" I think I '11 take you first." 

Kate's heart almost stopped beating when she 
heard this, and Harry turned pale ; but still the 
brave boy stood before his sister as stoutly as ever. 

Kate tried to call for help, but she had no voice. 
What could she do ? A boxing on the ears was 
nothing, she now thought ; she wished she had not 
called out, for it was evident that Harry was going 
to get a terrible whipping. 

She could not bear it ! Her dear brother ! 

She trembled so much that she could not stand, 
and she sank down on her knees. Rob, the dog, 
who had been lying near by, snapping at flies, all 
this time, now came up to comfort her. 

" Oh, Rob ! " she whispered, " I wish you were 
a cross dog." 

And Rob wagged his tail and lay down by her. 

" I wonder," she thought to herself, " oh ! I 
wonder if anyone could make him bite." 

" Rob ! " she whispered in the dog's ear, keep- 
ing her eyes fixed on the man, who had now nearly 
finished trimming his stick. "Rob! hiss-s-s-s ! " 
and she patted his back. 

Rob seemed to listen very attentively. 

" Hiss-s-s ! " she whispered again, her heart 
beating quick and hard. 

Rob now raised his head, his big body began to 
quiver, and the hair on his back gradually rose on 
end. 

" Hiss ! Rob ! Rob ! " whispered Kate. 

The man had shut up his knife, and was putting 
it in his pocket. He took the stick in his right 
hand. 

All now depended on Rob. 

"Oh! will he?" thought Kate, and then she 
sprang to her feet and clapped her hands. 

"Catch him, Rob!" she screamed. "Catch 
him ! " 

With a rush, Rob hurled himself full at the 
breast of the man, and the tall fellow went over 
backwards, just like a ten-pin. 

Then he was up and out into the road, Rob 
after him ! 

You ought to have seen the gravel fly ! 

Harry and Kate ran out into the road and cheered 
and shouted. Away went the man and away went 
the dog. 

Up the road, into the brush, out again, and then 
into a field, down a hill, nip and tuck ! At Tom 
Riley's fence, Rob got him by the leg, but the 



■874-: 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



247 






trowsers were old and the piece came out ; and 
then the man dashed into Riley's old tobacco barn, 
and slammed the door almost on the dog's nose. 

Rob ran around the house to see if there was 
an open window, and finding none, he went back 
to the door and lay down to wait. 

Harry and Kate ran home as fast as they could, 
and after awhile Rob came too. He had waited a 
reasonable time at the door of the barn, but the 
man had not come out. 

Chapter XII. 

TONY ON THE WAR-PATH. 

" She did it all," said Harry, when they had 
told the tale to half the village, on the store-porch. 

" I !" exclaimed Kate. " Rob, you mean." 

" That 's a good dog," said Mr. Darby, the store- 
keeper ; " what '11 you take for him ? " 

" Not for sale," said Harry. 

"Rob's all very well," remarked Tony Kirk; 
"but it won't do to have a feller like that in the 
woods, a fright'nin' the children. I 'd like to know 
who he is." 

Just at this moment Uncle Braddock made his 
appearance, hurrying along much faster than he 
usually walked, with his eyes and teeth glistening 
in the sunshine. 

" I seed him !" he cried, as soon as he came up. 

"Who 'd you see?" cried several persons. 

" Oh ! I seed de dog after him, and I come along 
as fas' as I could, but could n't come very fas'. De 
ole wrapper cotch de wind." 

" Who was it ?" asked Tony. 

" I seed him a-runnin'. Bress my roul ! de dog 
like to got him !" 

" But who was he, Uncle Braddock?" said Mr. 
Loudon, who had just reached the store from his 
house, where Kate, who had run home, had told 
the story. " Do you know him ?" 

"Know him? Reckon I does!" said Uncle 
Braddock, "an' de dog ud a knowed him, too, ef 
he 'd a cotched him ! Dat 's so, Mah'sr John." 

"Well, tell us his name, if you know him," said 
Mr. Darby. 

" Ob course, I knows him," said Uncle Braddock. 
"I 'se done knowed him fur twenty or fifty years. 
He 's George Mason." 

The announcement of this name caused quite a 
sensation in the party. 

" I thought he was down in Mississippi," said one 
man. 

"So he was, I reckons," said Uncle Braddock, 
"but he's done come back now. I 'se seed him 
afore to-day, and Aunt Matilda 's seed him, too. 
Yah, ha ! Dat dere dog come mighty nigh 
cotchin' him ! " 



George Mason had been quite a noted character 
in that neighborhood five or six years before. He 
belonged to a good family, but was of a lawless dis- 
position and was generally disliked by the decent 
people of the county. Just before he left for the 
extreme Southern States it was discovered that he 
had been concerned in a series of horse-thefts, for 
which he would have been arrested had he not 
taken his departure from the state. 

Few people, excepting Mr. Loudon and one or 
two others, knew the extent of his misdemeanors ; 
and out of regard to his family these had not been 
made public. But he had the reputation of being 
a wild, disorderly man, and now that it was known 
that he had contemplated boxing Kate Loudon's 
ears and whipping Harry, the indignation was very 
great. 

Harry and Kate were favorites with everybody, — 
white and black. 

" I tell ye what I 'm goin' to do," said Tony Kirk, 
" I 'm goin' after that feller." 

At this, half a dozen men offered to go along 
with Tony. 

" What will you do, if you find him ?" asked Mr. 
Loudon. 

" That depends on circumstances," replied Tony. 

" I am willing to have you go," said Mr. Lou- 
don, who was a magistrate and a gentleman of 
much influence in the village, " on condition that 
if you find him you offer him no violence. Tell 
him to leave the county, and say to him, from me, 
that if he is found here again he shall be ar- 
rested." 

"All right," said Tony; and he proceeded to 
make up his party. 

There were plenty of volunteers ; and for awhile 
it was thought that Uncle Braddock intended to 
offer to go. But, if so, he must have changed his 
mind, for he soon left the village and went over to 
Aunt Matilda's and had a good talk with her. The 
old woman was furiously angry when she heard of 
the affair. 

" I wish I 'd a been a little quicker," she said, 
" and dere would n't a been a red spot on him." 

Uncle Braddock did n't know exactly what she 
meant ; but he wished so, too. 

Tony did n't want a large party. He chose four 
men who could be depended upon, and they started 
out that evening. 

It was evident that Mason knew how to keep 
himself out of sight, for he had been in the vicinity 
a week or more, — as Tony discovered, after a visit 
to Aunt Matilda, — and no white person had seen 
him. 

But Tony thought he knew the country quite as 
well as George Mason did, and he felt sure he 
should find him. 



248 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED. 



[March, 



His party searched the vicinity quite thoroughly 
that night, starting from Tom Riley's tobacco barn; 
but they saw nothing of their man ; and in the 
morning they made the discovery that Mason had 
borrowed one of Riley's horses, without the knowl- 
edge of its owner, and had gone off, north of the 
mica mine. Some negroes had seen him riding 
away. 



were sure they had come upon him. Tom Riley's 
horse was found at the blacksmith's shop at the 
cross-roads, and the blacksmith said that he had 
been left there to have a shoe put on, and that the 
man who had ridden him had gone on over the 
fields towards a house on the edge of the woods, 
about a mile away. 

So Tony and his men rode up to within a half- 







1 IN SINGLE FILE, TONY IN THE LEAD. 



So Tony and his men took horses and rode away 
after him. Each of them carried his gun, for they 
did not know in what company they might find 
Mason. A man who steals horses is generally con- 
sidered, especially in the country, to be wicked 
enough to do anything. 

At a little place called Jordan's cross-roads, they 



mile of the house, and then ihey dismounted, tied 
their horses and proceeded on foot. They kept, 
as far as possible, under cover of the tall weeds and 
bushes, and hurried along silently and in single file, 
Tony in the lead. Thus they soon reached the 
house, when they quietly surrounded it. 

But George Mason played them a pretty trick. 



[To be continued.) 



li\/3ft,y.*fpfe,-mi/ / fee 




i8 74 .) 



THE GAU.ANT OUTRIDERS. 



249 





FOLLOWING A GOOD EXAMPLE. 



THE GALLANT OUTRIDERS. 



"Where have you been, my childrcn,- 
Where have you been, I pray?" 

" Oh, but we 've been a-riding, 
A-riding the live-long day." 

"And how did you ride, my darlings; 

And where did all of you go ? " 
"We all of us went on horseback, 

A-galloping in a row. 



' If Les. had only kept quiet 

We might have played we were dead : 
1 don't see the sense in yelling 

Because you have bumped your head. 

' Jacky held on like a good one, 

And looked as fine as a fiddle, — 
But it 's nothing to ride a-horseback 
If a fellow is on the middle." 



"Jack had the whole of the saddle; 
I held on to the tail ; 
And Leslie, under the fore-feet, 
Managed to ride the rail. 

"Jacky galloped and cantered, — 
Played he galloped, I mean ; 
For Les. and I did the rocking 
And Jack just rode between. 

" Oh, did n't our animal caper 
As he hitched himself along ! 
We might have kept on forever, 
If they 'd only made him strong. 

" But when I pitched on the carpet, 
His tail so tight in my hand, 
And Les. from the rail fell kicking, 
Why, horsey came to a stand. 




'50 



ROSES AND FORGET-ME-NOTS. 



[March, 



ROSES AND FORGET-ME-NOTS. 

By Louisa M. Alcott. 




I. 

■ ROSES. 

fT was a cold November storm, 
and everything looked forlorn. 
Even the pert sparrows were 
draggled-tailed and too much 
out of spirits to fight for crumbs 
with the fat pigeons who trip- 
ped through the mud with their 
little red boots as if in haste to 
get back to their cosy home in 
the dove-cot. 

But the most forlorn creature 
out that day was a small errand 
girl, with a bonnet-box on each 
arm, and both hands struggling 
to hold a big, broken umbrella. 
A pair of worn-out boots let in 
the wet upon her tired feet ; a 
thin cotton dress and an old 
shawl poorly protected her from 
the storm ; and a faded hood 
covered her head. 

The face that looked out 
from this hood was too pale 
and anxious for one so young ; and when a sud- 
den gust turned the old umbrella inside out with 
a crash, despair fell upon poor Lizzie, and she was 
so miserable she could have sat down in the rain 
and cried. 

But there was no time for tears ; so, dragging 
the dilapidated umbrella along, she spread her 
shawl over the bonnet-boxes and hurried down the 
broad street, eager to hide her misfortunes from a 
pretty young girl who stood at a window laughing 
at her. 

She could not find the number of the house 
where one of the fine hats was to be left ; and after 
hunting all down one side of the street she crossed 
over and came at last to the very house where the 
pretty girl lived. She was no longer to be seen ; 
and, with a sigh of relief, Lizzie rang the bell, and 
was told to wait in the hall while Miss Belle tried 
the hat on. 

Glad to rest, she warmed her feet, righted her 
umbrella, and then sat looking about her with eyes 
quick to see the beauty and the comfort that made 
the place so homelike and delightful. A small 
waiting-room opened from the hall, and in it stood 
many blooming plants, whose fragrance attracted 



Lizzie as irresistibly as if she had been a butterfly 
or bee. 

Slipping in, she stood enjoying the lovely colors, 
sweet odors and delicate shapes of these household 
spirits ; for Lizzie loved flowers passionately ; and 
just then they possessed a peculiar charm for her. 

One particularly captivating little rose won her 
heart, and made her long for it with a longing that 
became a temptation too strong to resist. It was 
so perfect ; so like a rosy face smiling out from the 
green leaves, that Lizzie could twt keep her hands 
off it, and having smelt, touched and kissed it, she 
suddenly broke the stem and hid it in her pocket. 
Then, frightened at what she had done, she crept 
back to her place in the hall and sat there burdened 
with remorse. 

A servant came just then to lead her up stairs, 
for Miss Belle wished the hat altered and must give 
directions. With her heart in a flutter and pinker 
roses in her cheeks than the one in her pocket, Lizzie 
followed to a handsome room, where a pretty girl 
stood before a long mirror with the hat in her 
hand. 

" Tell Madame Tifany that I don't like it at all, 
for she has n't put in the blue plume mamma 
ordered, and I won't have rose-buds ; they are so 
common," said the young lady, in a dissatisfied 
tone, as she twirled the hat about. 

"Yes, miss," was all Lizzie could say; for she 
considered that hat the loveliest thing a girl could 
possibly own. 

" You had better ask your mamma about it, Miss 
Belle, before you give any orders. She will be up 
in a few moments, and the girl can wait," put in a 
maid, who was sewing in the anteroom. 

"I suppose I must; but I won't have roses, 
answered Belle, crossly. Then she glanced at 
Lizzie and said more gently, " You look very cold ; 
come and sit by the fire while you wait." 

"I 'm afraid I'll wet the pretty rug, miss; my 
feet are sopping," said Lizzie, gratefully, but tim- 
idly. 

" So they are ! Why didn't you wear rubber 
boots ? " 

" I have n't got any." 

" I '11 give you mine, then, for I hate them ; and 
as I never go out in wet weather, they are of no 
earthly use to me. Marie, bring them here ; I shall 
be glad to get rid of them ; and I 'm sure they '11 
be useful to you." 

" Oh, thank you, miss ! I 'd like 'em ever so 



I874-] 



ROSES AND FORGET-ME-NOTS. 



251 



much, for I 'm out in the rain half the time and get 
bad colds because my boots are old," said Lizzie, 
smiling brightly at the thought of the welcome 
gift. 

" I should think your mother would get you 
warmer things," began Belle, who found something 
rather interesting in the shabby girl, with shy, 
bright eyes, and curly hair bursting out of the old 
hood. 

" I have n't got any mother," said Lizzie, with a 
pathetic glance at her poor clothes. 

" I 'm so sorry ! Have you brothers and sisters?" 
asked Belle, hoping to find something pleasant to 
talk about ; for she was a kind little soul. 

" No, miss; I 've got no folks at all." 

" Oh, dear ; how sad ! Why, who takes care of 
you?" cried Belle, looking quite distressed. 

"No one; I take care of myself. 1 work for 
Madame, and she pays me a dollar a week. I stay 
with Mrs. Brown and chore round to pay for my 
keep. My dollar don't get many clothes, so I can't 
be as neat as I 'd like." And the forlorn look came 
back to poor Lizzie's face. 

Belle said nothing, but sat among the sofa cush- 
ions, where she had thrown herself, looking soberly 
at this other girl, no older than she was, who took 
care of herself and was all alone in the world. It 
was a new idea to Belle, who was loved and petted 
as an only child is apt to be. She often saw beg- 
gars and pitied them, but knew very little about 
their wants and lives ; so it was like turning a new 
page in her happy life to be brought so near to 
poverty as this chance meeting with the milliner's 
girl. 

" Are n't you afraid and lonely and unhappy ? " 
she said slowly, trying to understand and put her- 
self in Lizzie's place. 

" Yes ; but it 's no use. I can't help it, and may 
be things will get better by and by, and I '11 have 
my wish," answered Lizzie, more hopefully, because 
Belle's pity warmed her heart and made her troubles 
seem lighter. 

"What is your wish?" asked Belle, hoping 
Mamma would n't come just yet, for she was getting 
interested in the stranger. 

"To have a nice little room, and make flowers 
like a French girl I know. It 's such pretty work, 
and she gets lots of money, for everyone likes her 
flowers. She shows me how, sometimes, and I can 
do leaves first-rate ; but " 

There Lizzie stopped suddenly, and the color 
rushed up to her forehead ; for she remembered 
the little rose in her pocket and it weighed upon 
her conscience like a stone. 

Before Belle could ask what was the matter, 
Marie came in with a tray of cake and fruit, say- 
ing : 



" Here 's your lunch, Miss Belle." 

" Put it down, please; I 'm not ready for it yet." 
And Belle shook her head as she glanced at Lizzie, 
who was staring hard at the fire with such a troubled 
face that Belle could not bear to see it. 

Jumping out of her nest of cushions, she heaped 
a plate with good things, and going to Lizzie, offered 
it, saying, with a gentle courtesy that made the act 
doubly sweet : 

" Please have some ; you must be tired of wait- 
ing." 

But Lizzie could not take it ; she could only cover 
her face and cry, for this kindness rent her heart 
and made the stolen flower a burden too heavy to 
be borne. 

" Oh, don't cry so ! Are you sick ? Have I been 
rude ? Tell me all about it ; and if 1 can't do any- 
thing, mamma can," said Belle, surprised and 
troubled. 

" No ; I 'm not sick ; I 'm bad, and I can't bear 
it when you are so good to me," sobbed Lizzie, 
quite overcome with penitence ; and taking out the 
crumpled rose, she confessed her fault with many 
tears. 

" Don't feel so much about such a little thing as 
that," began Belle, warmly, then checked herself 
and added more soberly, " It was wrong to take it 
without leave, but it 's all right now, and I '11 give 
you as many roses as you want, for I know you are 
a good girl." 

" Thank you. I didn't want it only because it 
was pretty, but I wanted to copy it. I can't get 
any for myself, and so I can't do my make-believe 
ones well. Madame won't even lend me the old 
ones in the store, and Estelle has none to spare for 
me, because I can't pay her for teaching me. She 
gives me bits of muslin and wire and things, and 
shows me now and then. But I know if I had a 
real flower I could copy it ; so she 'd see I did know 
something, for I try real hard. I 'm so tired of 
slopping round the streets I 'd do anything to earn 
my living some other way." 

Lizzie had poured out her trouble rapidly, and 
the little story was quite affecting when one saw the 
tears on her cheeks, the poor clothes and the thin 
hands that held the stolen rose. Belle was much 
touched, and, in her impetuous way, set about 
mending matters as fast as possible. 

" Put on those boots and that pair of dry stock- 
ings right away. Then tuck as much cake and 
fruit into your pocket as it will hold. I 'm going to 
get you some flowers and see if mamma is too busy 
to attend to me." 

With a nod and a smile Belle flew about the room 
a minute, then vanished, leaving Lizzie to her com- 
fortable task, feeling as if fairies still haunted the 
world as in the good old times. 



= 52 



ROSES AND FORGET-ME-NOTS. 



[March, I 



When Belle came back with a handful of roses, 
she found Lizzie absorbed in admiring contempla- 
tion of her new boots as she ate sponge-cake in a 
blissful sort of waking dream. 

"Mamma can't come; but I don't care about 
the hat. It will do very well, and is n't worth fus- 
sing about. There, will those be of any use to 
you ? " And she offered the nosegay with a much 
happier face than the one Lizzie first saw. 

"Oh, miss, they're just lovely? I '11 copy that 
pink rose as soon as ever I can, and when I 've 
learned how to do 'em tip top I 'd like to bring you 
some, if you don't mind," answered Lizzie, smiling 
all over her face as she buried her nose luxuriously 
in the fragrant mass. 

" I 'd like it very much, for I should think you 'd 
have to be very clever to make such pretty things. 
I really quite fancy those rose-buds in my hat, now 
I know that you 're going to learn how to make 
them. Put an orange in your pocket, and the 
flowers in water as soon as you can, so they '11 be 
fresh when you want them. Good by. Bring 
home our hats every time and tell me how you get 
on." 

With kind words like these Belle dismissed Lizzie, 
who ran down stairs, feeling as rich as if she had 
found a fortune. Away to the next place she hur- 
ried, anxious to get her errands done and the pre- 
cious posy safely into fresh water. But Mrs. Tur- 
retville was not at home, and the bonnet could not 
be left till paid for. So Lizzie turned to go down 
the high steps, glad that she need not wait. She 
stopped one instant to take a delicious sniff at her 
flowers, and that was the last happy moment that 
poor Lizzie knew for many weary months. 

The new boots were large for her, the steps slip- 
pery with sleet, and down went the little errand 
girl, from top to bottom, till she landed in the 
gutter directly upon Mrs. Turretvillc's costly bon- 
net. 

"I 've saved my posies, anyway," sighed Lizzie, 
as she picked herself up, bruised, wet and faint 
with pain; ' : but, oh, my heart! won't Madame 
scold when she sees that band-box smashed flat," 
groaned the poor child, sitting on the curbstone to 
get her breath and view the disaster. 

The rain poured, the wind blew, the sparrows on 
the park railing chirped derisively, and no one 
came along to help Lizzie out of her troubles. 
Slowly she gathered up her burdens ; painfully she 
limped away in the big boots, and the last the 
naughty sparrows saw of her was a shabby little 
figure going round the corner, with a pale, tearful 
face held lovingly over the bright bouquet that was 
her one treasure and her only comfort in the mo- 
ment which brought to her the great misfortune of 
her life. 




II. 

FORGET-ME-NOTS. 

H, mamma, I am so re- 
;*£,,/, lieved that the box has 
come at last ! If it had 
not, I do believe I should 
have died of disappoint- 
ment," cried pretty Belle, 
rive years later, on the 
morning before her eight- 
eenth birthday. 

" It would have been 
a serious disappointment, 
darling, for I had set my 
heart on your wearing my 
gift to-morrow night, and when the steamers kept 
coming in without my trunk from Paris, I was very 
anxious. I hope you will like it, dear." 

"Dear mamma, I know I shall like it; your 
taste is so good and you know what suits me so well. 
Make haste, Marie ; I 'm dying to see it," said Belle, 
dancing about the great trunk, as the maid care- 
fully unfolded tissue papers and muslin wrappers. 

A young girl's first ball-dress is a grand affair, — in 
her eyes, at least ; and Belle soon stopped dancing 
to stand with clasped hands, eager eyes and parted 
lips before the snowy pile of illusion that was at last 
daintily lifted out upon the bed. Then, as Marie 
displayed its loveliness, little shrieks of delight were 
heard, and when the whole delicate dress was ar- 
ranged to the best effect she threw herself upon her 
mother's neck and actually cried with pleasure. 

"Mamma, it is too lovely! and you are very 
kind to do so much for me. How shall I ever 
thank you ? " 

" By putting it right on to see if it fits; and 
when you wear it look your happiest, that I may bs 
proud of my pretty daughter." 

Mamma got no further, for Marie uttered a 
French shriek, wrung her hands, and then began 
to burrow wildly in the trunk and among the 
papers, crying distractedly : 

" Great heavens, madame ! the wreath has been 
forgotten! Ma foi ! what an affliction ! Madem- 
oiselle's enchanting toilette is destroyed without 
the wreath, and nowhere do I find it." 

In vain they searched ; in vain Marie wailed and 
Belle declared it must be somewhere ; no wreath 
appeared. It was duly set down in the bill, and a 
fine sum charged for a head-dress to match the 
dainty forgot-me-nots that looped the fleecy skirts 
and ornamented the bosom of the dress. It had 
evidently been forgotten ; and Mamma despatched 
Marie at once to try and match the flowers, for 
Belle would not hear of any other decoration for 
her beautiful blonde hair. 



- t8 7 4- 



ROSES AND FORGET-ME-NOTS. 



253 



The dress fitted to a charm, and was pronounced 
by all beholders the loveliest thing ever seen. 
Nothing was wanted but the wreath to make it 
•quite perfect, and when Marie returned, after a 
long search, with no forget-me-nots, Belle was in 
despair. 

" Wear natural ones." suggested a sympathizing 
friend. 

But another hunt among greenhouses was as 
fruitless as that among the milliners' rooms. No 
forget-me-nots could be found, and Marie fell ex- 
hausted into a chair, desolated at what she felt to 
be an awful calamity. 

" Let me have the carriage, and I '11 ransack the 
city till I find some." cried Belle, growing more 
resolute with each failure. 

Mamma was deep in preparations for the ball, 
and could not help her afflicted daughter, though 
she was much disappointed at the mishap. So 
Belle drove off. resolved to have her flowers whether 
there were any or not. 

Anyone who has ever tried to match a ribbon. 
find a certain fabric, or get anything done in a 
hurry, knows what a wearisome task it sometimes 
is, and can imagine Belle's state of mind after re- 
peated disappointments. She was about to give 
up in despair when some one suggested that per- 
haps the Frenchwoman, Estelle Valnor, might 
make the desired wreath, if there was time. 

Away drove Belle, and, on entering the room, 
gave a sigh of satisfaction, for a whole boxful of the 
loveliest forget-me-nots stood upon the table. As 
fast as possible, she told her tale and demanded 
the flowers, no matter what the price might be. 
Imagine her feelings when the Frenchwoman, with 
a shrug, announced that it was impossible to give 
mademoiselle a single spray. All were engaged to 
trim a bridesmaid's dress, and must be sent away 
at once. 

It really was too bad ! and Belle lost her temper 
entirely, for no persuasion or bribes would win a 
spray from Estelle. The provoking part of it was 
that the wedding would not come off for several 
days, and there was time enough to make more 
flowers for that dress, since Belle only wanted a few 
for her hair. Neither would Estelle make her any, 
as her hands were full, and so small an order was 
not worth deranging one's self for ; but observing 
Belle's sorrowful face, she said, affably: 

" Mademoiselle may. perhaps, find the flowers 
she desires at Miss Berton's. She has been helping 
me with these garlands, and may have some left. 
Here is her address." 

Belle took the card with thanks, and hurried 
away with a last hope faintly stirring in her girlish 
heart, for Belle had an unusually ardent wish to 
look her best at this party, since Somebody was to 



be there, and Somebody considered forget-me-nots 
the sweetest flowers in the world. Mamma knew 
this, and the kiss Belle gave her when the dress 
came had a more tender meaning than gratified 
vanity or daughterly love. 

Up many stairs she climbed, and came at last to 
a little room, very poor but very neat, where, at the 
one window, sat a young girl, with crutches by her 
side and her lap full of flower-leaves and petals. 
She rose slowly as Belle came in, and then stood 
looking at her, with such a wistful expression in her 
shy, bright eyes, that Belle's anxious face cleared 
involuntarily, and her voice lost its impatient tone. 

As she spoke she glanced about the room, hoping 
to see some blue blossoms awaiting her. But none 
appeared ; and she was about to despond again, 
when the girl said, gently : 

" I have none by me now, but I may be able to 
find you some." 

" Thank you very much ; but I have been every- 
where in vain. Still, if you do get any, please 
send them to me as soon as possible. Here is my 
card." 

Miss Berton glanced at it, then cast a quick look 
at the sweet, anxious face before her, and smiled so 
brightly that Belle smiled also, and asked, wonder- 
ingly : 

" What is it ? What do you see ? : ' 

" I see the dear young lady who was so kind to 
me long ago. You don't remember me, and never 
knew my name ; but I never have forgotten you 
all these years. I always hoped I could do some- 
thing to show how grateful I was, and now I can, 
for you shall have your flowers if I sit up all night 
to make them." 

But Belle still shook her head and watched the 
smiling face before her with wondering eyes, till the 
girl added, with sudden color in her cheeks : 

" Ah, you 've done so many kind things in your 
life, you don't remember the little errand girl from 
Madame Tifany's who stole a rose in your hall, and 
how you gave her rubber boots and cake and 
flowers, and were so good to her she could n't for- 
get it if she lived to be a hundred." 

" But you are so changed," began Belle, who 
did faintly recollect that little incident in her happy 
life. 

" Yes, I had a fall and hurt myself so that I 
shall always be lame." 

And Lizzie went on to tell how Madame had dis- 
missed her in a rage ; how she lay ill till Mrs. 
Brown sent her to the hospital ; and how for a year 
she had suffered much alone, in that great house 
of pain, before one of the. kind visitors had be- 
friended her. 

While hearing the story of the five years, that had 
been so full of pleasure, ease and love for herself, 



254 



ROSES AND FORGET-ME-NOTS. 



[March, 



Belle forgot her errand, and, sitting beside Lizzie, 
listened with pitying eyes to all she told of her en- 
deavors to support herself by the delicate handiwork 
she loved. 

" I 'm very happy now," ended Lizzie, looking 
about the little bare room with a face full of the 
sweetest content. "I get nearly work enough to 
pay my way, and Estelle sends me some when she 
has more than she can do. I 've learned to do it 
nicely, and it is so pleasant to sit here and make 
flowers instead of trudging about in the wet with 




'LIZZIE KNELT DOWN TO AKKA.M 



THE AIRV SKIRT. 



other people's hats. Though I do sometimes wish 
I was able to trudge, one gets on so slowly with 
crutches." 

A little sigh followed the words, and Belle put 
her own plump hand on the delicate one that held 
the crutch, saying, in her cordial young voice : 

"I '11 come and take you to drive sometimes, 
for you are too pale, and you '11 get ill sitting here 
at work day after day. Please let me ; I 'd love to ; 
for I feel so idle and wicked when I see busy people 



like you that I reproach myself for neglecting my 
duty and having more than my share of happi- 
ness." 

Lizzie thanked her with a look, and then said, in 
a tone of interest that was delightful to hear : 

" Tell about the wreath you want; I should so 
love to do it for you, if I can." 

Belle had forgotten all about it in listening to this 
sad little story of a girl's life. Now she felt half 
ashamed to talk of so frivolous a matter till she re- 
membered that it would help Lizzie ; and, resolving 
to pay for it as never garland was 
paid for before, she entered upon the 
subject with renewed interest. 

"You shall have the flowers in time 
for your ball to-morrow night. I will 
engage to make a wreath that will 
please you, only it may take longer 
than I think. Don't be troubled if I 
don't send it till evening; it will 
surely come in time. I can work fast, 
and this will be the happiest job I 
ever did," said Lizzie, beginning to 
lay out mysterious little tools and 
bend delicate wires. 

" You are altogether too grateful 
for the little I did. It makes me feel 
ashamed to think I did not find you 
out before and do something better 
worth thanks." 

" Ah, it was n't the boots or the 
cake or the roses, dear Miss Belle. It 
was the kind looks, the gentle words, 
the way you did it all, that went right 
to my heart, and did me more good 
than a million of money. I never 
stole a pin after that day, for the litde 
rose would n't let me forget how you 
forgave me so sweetly. I sometimes 
think it kept me from greater temp- 
tations, for I was a poor, forlorn child, 
with no one to keep me good." 

Pretty Belle looked prettier than 
ever as she listened, and a bright tear 
stood in either eye like a drop of dew 
on a blue flower. It touched her very 
much to learn that her little act of 
childish charity had been so sweet and helpful to 
this lonely girl, and now lived so freshly in her 
grateful memory. It showed her, suddenly, how 
precious little deeds of love and sympathy are ; how 
strong to bless, how easy to perform, how comfort- 
able to recall. Her heart was very full and tender 
just then, and the lesson sunk deep into it never to 
be forgotten. 

She sat a long time watching flowers bud 
and blossom under Lizzie's skillful fingers, and 



1874.] 



MARCH. 



255 



then hurried home to tell all her glad news to 
Mamma. 

If the next day had not been full of most delight- 
fully exciting events Belle might have felt some 
anxiety about her wreath, for hour after hour went 
by and nothing arrived from Lizzie. 

Evening came, and all was ready. Belle was 
dressed and looked so lovely that Mamma declared 
she needed nothing more. But Marie insisted that 
the grand effect would be ruined without the gar- 
land among the sunshiny hair. Belle had time 
now to be anxious, and waited with growing im- 
patience for the finishing touch to her charming 
toilette. 

"I must be down stairs to receive, and can't wait 
another moment ; so put in the blue pompon and 
let me go," she said at last, with a sigh of disap- 
pointment ; for the desire to look beautiful that 
night in Somebody's eyes had increased four-fold. 

With a tragic gesture, Marie was about to adjust 
the pompon when the quick tap of a crutch came 
down the hall, and Lizzie hurried in, flushed and 
breathless, but smiling happily as she uncovered the 
box she carried with a look of proud satisfaction. 

A general " Ah ! " of admiration arose as Belle, 
Mamma and Marie surveyed the lovely wreath that 
lay before them ; and when it was carefully arranged 
on the bright head that was to wear it, Belle blushed 
with pleasure. Mamma said: " It is more beauti- 
ful than any Paris could have sent us ;" and Marie 
clasped her hands theatrically, sighing, with her 
head on one side : 

" Truly, yes ; mademoiselle is now adorable ! " 



' ' I am so glad you like it. I did my very best 
and worked all night, but I had to beg one spray 
from Estelle, or, with all my haste, I could not 
have finished in time," said Lizzie, refreshing her 
weary eyes with a long, affectionate gaze at the 
pretty figure before her. 

A fold of the airy skirt was caught on one of the 
blue clusters, and Lizzie knelt down to arrange it as 
she spoke. Belle leaned toward her and said softly: 
" Money alone can't pay you for this kindness; so 
tell me how I can best serve you. This is the hap- 
piest night of my life, and I want to make every- 
one feel glad also." 

" Then don't talk of paying me, but promise that 
I may make the flowers you wear on your wedding- 
day," whispered Lizzie, kissing the kind hand held 
out to help her rise, for on it she saw a brilliant 
ring, and in the blooming, blushing face bent over 
her she read the tender little story that Somebody 
had told Belle that day. 

" So you shall ! and I '11 keep this wreath all my 
life for your sake, dear," answered Belle, as her full 
heart bubbled over with pitying affection for the 
poor girl who would never make a bridal garland 
for herself. 

Belle kept her word, even when she was in a 
happy home of her own ; for out of the dead roses 
bloomed a friendship that brightened Lizzie's life ; 
and long after the blue garland was faded Belle re- 
membered the helpful little lesson that taught her 
to read the faces poverty touches with _ a pathetic 
eloquence, which says to those who look, " Forget- 
me-not." 



MARCH. 



In the snowing and the blowing, 

In the cruel sleet, — 
Little flowers begin their growing 

Far beneath our feet. 
Softly taps the Spring, and cheerly,— 

"Darlings, are you here?" 
Till they answer: "We are nearly, 

Nearly ready, dear." 

"Where is Winter, with his snowing? 

Tell us, Spring," they say; 
Then she answers: "He is going, 

Going on his way. 
Poor old Winter does not love you,— 

But his time is past; 
Soon my birds shall sing above you,- 

Set you free at last ! " 




256 



SOME CURIOUS FISHES. 



[March 



SOME CURIOUS FISHES. 

In this picture Mr. Beard has drawn for us some names and habits of these fishes, referring to them 

very remarkable fishes,— not fancy fishes either, by their position in the picture. If you can only; 

but real ones, true to life and drawn without ex- write about one fish, we shall be glad to have youi 

aggeration. Now, instead of our describing the do so. Send your letters as soon as you can, as 




picture to our readers, we would like them to those received after March 15 are not likely to be 

describe it to us. We hope all boys and girls examined. In the May number of St. Nicholas 

who take an interest in natural history will investi- we shall tell you what we know about these curious 

■gate this matter and tell us, as far as they can, the creatures. 



i8 7 4-] 



SNOWED IN. 



257 



SNOWED IN. 

An Incident of the Great Storm 0/ the Winter 2^1872 

By Martha M. Thomas. 



" WHEN will you be home, father ? " 

•'The day after to-morrow. If I start immedi- 
ately, I can be there by eight or nine o'clock. The 
snow looks as though it might be deep. I shall put 
Bob and Grey to the sleigh, and take Jack with me. " 

" It will be so lonely, and, somehow, I wish you 
were not going." 

The girl stooped and opened the stove door, fur- 
tively wiping her eyes with her apron. 

" So do I, Beckie, but I must go. I am Huston's 
principal witness, and should feel very sorry if, for 
want of my testimony, he lost his farm." 

" I know it is right, and I should not care so 

much if Jack would be here, but " 

• "I shall stop at neighbor Giles' and get Aunt 
Lizzie to come over ; she said she would do so. 
Joe is to bring her, and stay and milk and do the 
feeding while I am gone." 

Beckie brightened up at this. 

" Let Jack get ready, while I put some wood and 
coal in the shed to be handy, then I will take a bite 
and be off." 

Mr. Wilson was a New England man, who, find- 
ing some difficulty in making a living out of his 
"stony potato patch," as he called the few acres he 
owned in his native state, had emigrated to the 
West and settled on one of the rich prairies that 
there abound. He had married a thrifty, active 
girl, the daughter of a neighboring farmer, and he 
now owned a large farm, with comfortable house 
and outhouses. His dwelling was rather isolated, 
being some distance from any traveled road. 

His wife had died six months previous, leaving 
him with five children. Jack, the eldest, was 
turned of fourteen. Beckie was in her thirteenth 
year. James was ten ; Will, eight ; and the baby, 
a girl, was seven months old. 

Since their mother's death, Beckie had tried to 
supply her place to the other children. She had 
taken all the care of the baby, and was, as her 
father called her, a "little mother." Mr. Wilson 
had been summoned to the county town, as witness 
on atrial involving the ownership of a friend's farm, 
and although the weather was stormy and cold, he 
felt that he must go. 

"Keep up the fires, Beckie," he said, while eat- 
ing his pie ; " there is wood and coal enough in the 
shed to last until I get back, and take good care of 
Jamie and the baby." 

Vol. 1.-17. 



" Yes," she replied; adding, " How it does snow, 
and it has grown colder ! " 

When they had started, Beckie stood until they 
drove out of the yard and the curtain of fast-falling 
snow almost hid them from her sight. 

" I never did see it snow so," she said to Jamie. 
" I wish Joe would come, — he is such good com- 
pany." 

A silent hour passed, interrupted only by Will's 
laugh, as he lay on the floor playing with baby. 
Beckie began to feel uneasy, for the short winter 
day was drawing to a close, and neither Aunt Lizzie 
nor Joe had come. 

" I have been watching the snow, Beckie. I 
cannot see the garden fence, the flakes fall so 
thick. I hope father and Jack will be safe," said 
Jamie, as she stepped into the sitting-room to get 
the broom. She had gone into the shed for some- 
thing, and was surprised at the depth of the snow. 
She went to the window and looked out. 

There was not a goose nor a duck to be seen. 
The chickens had been driven from under the lilac 
bushes, where they usually took refuge in a storm. 

Again she wished Aunt Lizzie and Joe would 
come. She began to feel a sort of dread too, and 
was a little frightened at the aspect of things. 
Every moment the storm increased in violence. 
Outside things were buried in the snow ; a gloom 
was creeping over the whole landscape. She could 
scarcely distinguish objects she knew to be only a 
few yards distant. 

She opened the door again, and went out into 
the shed. As she did so, she heard the favorite cow, 
Crumpies, lowing, give a long, low bellow. 

" She is at the cow-house door and wants to get 
in," she said to herself; " I will milk her, for Joe 
may not come, and baby must have her supper." 

She took down an old coat of her father's and 
buttoned herself in it, drew on Jack's cow-hide 
boots, tied up her head and ears in a comforter, ' 
then, opening the door into the sitting-room, she 
told Jamie to stay in there and look after Will and 
the baby, took her milk pail and started. She 
stopped, aghast, when she reached the door of the 
shed, confounded at the depth of the snow. She 
plunged into it, but found she could not go on. 

Beckie was a girl of courage, besides which she 
had a spirit of adventure. She did not think there 
was any especial danger. It was a dreadful storm, 



'■5* 



SNOWED IN. 



! March, 



there was excitement in breasting it, and it would 
be something to tell of afterwards ; besides, she 
must have the milk for baby — that was the para- 
mount idea now. As she recovered from her first 
plunge she thought of a kind of snow-hoe her 
father had made, and she stepped back into the 
shed, and, with some difficulty, extricated it. It 
was a long stout stick, at the end of which was 
fastened a broad, flat piece of board, like a hoe, 
only many times larger. Cutting a piece of the 
clothes line that hung there, she tied her milk pail 
by it around her waist ; then putting the handle of 
her snow-hoe against her breast, holding it with 
both hands, she pressed on, making a track for 
herself. As she went by the dog-kennel the animal 
barked and jumped towards her, and she stopped 
in the deep snow and unchained him. 

The gloom had so increased, she could scarcely 
distinguish an object in the barn-yard. Reaching 
the gate between the two yards, she was tempted to 
go back, but again she heard Crumpies' lowing, 
and she pushed on, although it was hard work. 
The wind and snow came so violently she could 
scarcely stand up against it, and would have fallen 
but for the snow-hoe, which supported her. 

At length she reached the cow-house. Crumpies 
and another cow stood there. Fortunately the 
snow had, in a measure, drifted away from the 
cow-house door, and was piled against a fence a 
few feet off. With two or three digs of her snow- 
hoe she cleared it away, so as to open the door 
sufficiently for the animals to go in. Passing in 
herself, she had to sit down a moment before she 
could do anything, although the gathering gloom 
there alarmed her. 

In an excitement, and with a fierce anxiety about 
getting back, she went to work and milked both 
cows, threw them corn, ran into the barn for hay, 
and then she thought of the horses in the stable ; 
she gave them oats, shook the hay in their man- 
gers, and was hastening out, when she saw the 
milk cans which her father had left on a bench 
there. She seized them, and pouring the milk 
into them, put the tops on securely, and tied them 
around her waist. It was dark, almost, in the barn, 
and she got out as quickly as she could, fastened 
the cow-house door, and once more was amid the 
raging elements. 

Confused, she stood, scarcely knowing which way 
to go. There was no sign of the path she had 
made. Could she fight her way back ? The fury 
of the tempest had so increased, it seemed as 
though nothing could live in it. She was almost 
numb with cold ; — but the children ! the baby ! 
With no spoken words, but with the spirit of 
Peter's " Save me, I perish," in her heart, she 
attempted to press on. 



Blindly she went, staggering under the weight 
of the milk, which she clung to as life for baby, 
the flakes dashing in her face with a force that 
almost took her breath, and the wind rocking her 
as though she were a reed. 

She was so cold she could not stand this much 
longer. She would soon drop. She would be : 
frozen to death, she knew ; but even as she thought 
this, she pushed on. She must be near the gate ; j 
she tried to see it, but there might as well have 
been a wall before her. 

The wind swept by in a fearful gust that rocked 
her back and forth, although she was walled up, as I 
it were, on each side. What was that it had bared 
just in her path? The roof of the dog-kennel? 
Yes, it was ; and she was then inside the yard, 
only about thirty feet from the shed. She put her 
hands straight out before her, and, with all her I 
strength, made her way forward. Would she 
never get there ! She could not stand it much lon- 
ger. Just then, her outstretched hands came with 
stinging force against the shed. She gave a cry of 
joy ; staggered along, feeling for the opening ; 
found it ; and, for a second, stood there gasping. 

Even in that instant it seemed as though she 
would be covered up. The storm shrieked and 
howled like an army of demons. 

She never could tell how she reached the kitchen 
door, and got within. All she did know was that 
she was aroused by Jamie's crying ; that she found 
herself upon the kitchen floor beside a mass of 
snow ; her milk safe ; and that it was quite dark. 

She was not conscious that she, a girl of thirteen, 
had accomplished a feat that night which many 
strong, brave men had loot their lives in attempt- 
ing, — the feat of going a dozen yards in that 
storm. 

She was very weak, and her limbs ached, and 
she could not drag herself to the stove to renew the 
fire, now low. Jamie put in fuel, while she shivered 
and trembled. It seemed as though her blood had 
frozen in her veins. The baby was crying. She 
attempted to get up, but fell back, and burst into 
tears. Frightened at her appearance and manner, 
Jamie began to sob, and this aroused her. 

" Get the baby's bottle, Jamie, and warm her 
some milk." 

Jamie wiped his eyes, and did as she told him. 

Jamie fed the baby, and she sat by the stove, 
leaning over it. The children must have their sup- 
per ; but she felt herself totally unable to drag her- 
self about. She remembered some highly spiced 
blackberry cordial her mother had made and kept 
for sickness. Jamie got her some. She drank al- 
most a tea-cupful, then dragged herself to the set- 
tee, and laid down. She fell asleep, and was only 
awakened by Will's tugging at her dress. 



i8 7 4- 



SNOWED IN, 



259 



" Beckie ! Beckie ! I want some supper; and 
it is so dark ! " 

She got up so much revived, that she hastened 
to get a light, put the tea-kettle on, and set the 
table. When she tried to draw in the shutters she 
could not move them ; the snow was banked up 
against the windows, and fell in on the floor. It was 
with difficulty she could close the window again. 

Beckie was so very anxious that she could not eat 
any supper. Will had a good appetite ; but Jamie 
complained of a headache, and said he did not want 
any. Beckie persuaded him to come to table and 
drink a cup of tea. She took the baby up, and 
sat there feeding it until they were done; then she 
laid it in its cradle, for it had gone to sleep. 

After getting coal and wood for the night, from 
the shed, — and there was not much there, — she 
went up stairs to see if there was any fire. She 
slept up there with the baby, and the boys' bed 
was down in their father's room. Turning the 
damper in the stove, the room was soon warm. She 
told the boys to get into one of the beds in her 
room, heard Will say his prayers, undressed the 
baby, and went to bed herself. 

Wearied with the day's exertions, she slept sound- 
ly. It was later than usual, and intensely cold, 
when she got up next morning. Her first glance 
out the window showed they were buried in snow. 
As far as her eye could reach, there was a trackless 
waste of white, unbroken by a single object. The 
barn appeared half buried, the coal-shed was not to 
be seen ; but the storm had abated. Her first 
thought was of father and Jack. Had they reached 
H in safety? Her next thought, as she pro- 
ceeded to make the fire, was, what should they do 
for fuel ? There was only that little pile in the 
kitchen. 

She went down stairs. Every window was blocked 
up. She made a fire to get breakfast, and then 
opened the door. A sheet of white faced her. She 
closed it quickly, fearing the snow would fall in 
upon ner ; and, utterly appalled, sat down and 
cried. What were they to do ? No one could get 
to them. They had not more than enough fuel to 
last during the day. 

Presently she dried her tears, and sat for a few 
moments thinking. Then she got up, lighted a 
lamp, and went about preparing breakfast, drawing 
the table as close to the stove as possible. 

When she went up stairs the children were awake. 
Jamie fretted, and complained of his head and 
his throat ; he coughed, and had fever. She told 
him to lie still and she would bring him some cof- 
fee ; and she and Will went down to their meal. 

She had determined what to do ; and, after 
soothing Jamie, and telling him to lie still and try 
to sleep, and giving Will a picture book to amuse 



him, she began her preparations. She must move 
up stairs and keep but one fire. Besides the small 
quantity of coal, there was very little oil. All was 
darkless down stairs. The wind seemed to have 
blown the snow before it across the prairie, and 
walled them in. 

She carried a bench up stairs, and set it in the 
hall, and on this she put her dishes and eatables; 
took the baby's cradle and a crock of milk up 
(how glad she was she had the milk ! ), moved a stand 
and trunk out of the room, and put a table in their 
place. 

It was a dreadfully weary day; and she was glad 
when the time came to get dinner. The difficulties 
of cooking on the little chamber stove occupied 
her ; and Will was immensely amused at the small 
table off which they had to eat. There was a noise 
at the door, and when they opened it Rover, the 
dog, walked in. He had been left down stairs, and 
forgotten. Will fed him, and he stretched him- 
self beside the stove, wagging his tail whenever they 
spoke to him. 

Jamie would eat nothing, — he was really ill. 
Beckie saw that, but she did not know what to give 
him. The baby and he occupied her attention all 
the afternoon. 

She got supper ready early and put Will to bed. 
She was very much alarmed about Jamie, and 
frightened when she saw how little coal there was 
left ; not more than enough to make a fire in the 
morning. What should she do ? They must have 
fire. She went into the cellar and knocked a 
couple of barrels to pieces, and carried the staves 
up stairs. 

She slept little, for Jamie tossed and threw his 
arms out over his head, and the cover off him, and 
called " water ! water!" every few moments. She 
had to keep up the fire for fear he would get cold; 
and when daylight came, and she awoke from an 
uneasy sleep in which she had fallen, there was only 
a couple of barrel staves left. 

She must keep the children warm, and she said 
to herself, " I will do it if I must burn up all the 
furniture in the house." 

Dressing herself warmly, she again visited the 
cellar. There was an old barrel in the corner she 
had overlooked ; on removing some bits of iron 
from it, she found about a bushel of coal. She 
carried this up stairs, and with the staves of the 
barrel, soon had a bright, warm fire, and a good 
breakfast set out for Will and herself. Jamie was 
so ill he did not notice anything ; and the baby, 
who was always good, slept. From the window 
was to be seen only the same dreary waste of 
unbroken snow. 

All her energies this day were taxed to keep the 
fire going. She dressed Will and the baby as 



260 



SNOWED IX. 



[March, 



warmly as possible, and collected and burnt every 
available small article in the house. The potato 
masher, the wash-board, the tubs, the shelves in 
the cellar and the kitchen, the steps leading to the 
cellar, the clothes-horse, the bread -board and 
rolling-pin were all split in pieces, and carefully 
put in the stove, with bits of coal to make them 
last ^longer. Before dark they went to bed, for 
there was not more than enough oil in the house 
to last a couple of hours. Jamie did not any 
longer know her ; he lay muttering in delirium. 
The morning dawned, and it was the same as 



alive. - The children must not see me cry. " She 
wiped her eyes. ' ' I must split up this table to 
burn." 

She lifted the axe and struck a piece off the 
edge — another — then she heard Rover bark; again 
and again he barked. " Will is making him, and 
he will disturb Jamie," she thought, and she 
dropped the axe and ran up stairs. 
' " Beckie ! Beckie ! " called Will, as she opened 
the door, "Rover is so funny, he jumped up at 
the window and keeps wagging his tail and bark- 
ing." 




SOME ONE IS COMING! 



before. All night — although nearly overcome with 
drowsiness and fatigue — she had watched Jamie; 
bathed his hot head, and put water to his lips. It 
was all she could do. Help must come with the 
day. She would not give up. 

She used the last of the fuel to make up the fire, 
and managed to make the kettle boil. After she 
had taken some coffee and Will had eaten his 
breakfast, she left him at play with Rover, and 
went below stairs ; and there sitting down, had a 
hearty cry. She believed Jamie was dying. She 
did not know what to do for him. What should 
she do ? Why did not father come ? Was he 
dead ? Then she thought, " He will come if he is 



A look out the window showed her something 
moving over the prairie towards the house. She 
could not tell what it was for the showering of snow 
that accompanied it. 

" Some one is coming ! Some one is coming ! " 
she exclaimed. 

As it neared, the dog sprang up and down, rest- 
ing his paws on the window sill, and barking louder 
and louder, and Will stood beside him, making 
little springs and screaming : 

" It is father, Beckie ! It is father ! " 

" We can sec best now in the other room ; wrap 
this shawl around you." Beckie darted through 
the door, and threw open, a window in the adjoin- 



1874-1 



SNOWED IN. 



26l 



ing chamber. Rover sprang up, put his head and 
most of his body out — looked as though he wished 
to leap — then drew back, as though afraid, and 
barked more furiously than ever. 

Now the barn hid the object — it was in the barn- 
yard. It seemed to move slowly and take time — 
a long time to the eager lookers-on — to advance. 
Rover barked frantically : and, as if in answer, a 
voice from the moving mass, in which they began 
to distinguish figures, called : 

" Beckie ! Beckie ! " 

" It is father ! It is father ! Yes, yes ! " 

She ran down and opened the kitchen door. 
Now she could hear but could not see them. She 
ran back again and called out, and then down into 
the kitchen. They were working outside. In a 
few moments something scattered the snow right 
and left — she was covered with it — and her father 
burst into the kitchen. 

" Beckie ! where are you all ? " , 

" Here, father !" She was hanging on him. 

"All safe?'.' 

" Yes ; but Jamie is so ill." 

He made a step towards the sitting-room door. 

" We have no fire;" she pointed to the table. 
"I have burnt up almost everything." 

He had Will in his arms ; he stepped to the 
door. 

" Men ! they have no fire ; she was chopping up 
the table." He turned to her. " Where are Jamie 
and the baby ? I was afraid you would all be 
frozen to death ! " 

He went up stairs, took up the baby and kissed 
it, looked at Jamie. 

" Thank God it is no worse !" he said. 

The men were building a fire in the kitchen, and 
there was soon another blazing in the sitting-room. 

Mr. Wilson's first care was to attend to Jamie. 
He was accustomed to prescribe for his children 
when they were ill, and he had medicine in the 
house. Soon he was seated, with Will on his knee 
and Beckie close beside and leaning against him, 
the fire burning brightly, while she told her story. 

He pressed her close to him, kissed her, patted 
her head, and called her a heroic little mother. O. 
how proud she was ! Then he told her how he and 



Jack had been caught in the storm. They had lost 
the road and were unable to tell where they were, 
but kept on, on for their lives ; at last he became so 
exhausted and cold, the reins dropped from his 
hands, and he fell to the bottom of the sleigh. 
Then Jack, who was warmly wrapped in an extra 
bear robe, seized the reins and drove, they could 
not tell whither. Night began to come on. After 
a time they heard some one calling, and answer- 
ing, found they had approached a dwelling, the 
owner of which, lantern in hand, had come out to 
unloose his dog, and had heard Crumpies' bell, 
which was tied on one of the horses. 

They were taken into the house. Mr. Wilson 
was so exhausted he had to be put to bed. Upon 
inquiry they discovered that instead of being near 

H , as they supposed, they were not half way 

there ; they had been going round and round in a 
circle. 

The next morning they were appalled at the ex- 
tent of the storm. Troubled and anxious concern- 
ing his children, Mr. Wilson had in vain endeavored 
to get help to go to their assistance. There was 
no one there to help him ; and the day was spent 
in digging their way to the barns and outhouses, 
relieving the cattle and procuring fuel. The day 
after, they succeeded in putting together something 
that answered as a snow plough, and accompanied 
by Mr. Staines and his son, at whose house they 
had been sheltered, and joined by others whose 
homes they passed, had made all haste possible to 
the children's assistance. They were obliged to 
stop one night, but had started again at daylight next 
morning. Calling at Mr. Giles' he had learned 
that Joe and "Aunt Lizzie" had started, but, af- 
frighted at the storm, had turned back. Then his 
anxiety was increased ; for he knew, from the out- 
of-the-way situation of the house, there was scarcely 
a probability of any aid but his reaching them. 

" I feared to find you all dead ; and but for you, 
'little mother,' it would have been so." 

A few days afterwards, when Jack reached home, 
he gave an account of the suffering and loss of 
life which the storm had caused, 

Long will they remember the great snow storm 
of the winter of 1872. 



262 



AN ODD FELLOW. 



[ March, 



AN ODD FELLOW. 
By Harriet M. Miller. 



ii 



Odd — I should think so ! why, he carries his 
house on his back, and has his teeth on his legs ! 

That's a tough story, but — dear me ! — it's no- 
thing to what you'll have to believe when you come 
to study the curious creatures that live in the sea. 

As to carrying his house about with him, that is 
nothing new, all crabs and turtles do that, but I 
must admit he's the only fellow I ever heard of who 




HORSE-FOOT CRAD. 



has teeth on his legs. If you and I are not ac- 
quainted with him, it is merely because we haven't 
been prying into the domestic manners of the 
crab family all these years, as some scientific 
gentlemen have. They have known about him 
these many years, and he has even got into the dic- 
tionary. Look in Webster's big dictionary, at the 
word Limulus, and you'll see a picture of him. 
Limulus, you must know, is his grand Latin name, 
which he doesn't wear at home in the sea. There 
he is called Horse-foot Crab, or King Crab. 

And there's another droll thing about him, — he's 
just the shape of the bottom of a horse's foot, with 



a long sharp tail striking out at the heel. He's a J 
funny sight when he is digging — and digging is 
his special delight, I can tell you. This shell is in 
two pieces ; the front piece bends down and shovels 
up the dirt, the back piece bends down the other 
way, and the hard sharp tail braces against the 
ground, while all his feet — eight or ten there are — 
throw out the dirt on both sides. It doesn't take 
long for him to burrow into the mud out of sight. 

But I haven't told you about those useful legs, 
which do the work of jaws, besides their regular 
business of carrying their owner about. 

There are five pair of them, besides a short pair 
in front, called feelers, or antenna?, if you want the 
book name. The first four pair are furnished with 
sharp teeth — lots of them, sometimes as many as a 
hundred and fifty. 

When this comical gentleman wants to eat, he 
seizes a soft worm, or some other sea delicacy, with 
his two hind feet, and holds it up to his mouth, 
which is conveniently placed among all these use- 
ful legs. Then the hundred and fifty sharp little 
teeth go to work, and rasp the food into bits, and 
the mouth takes it in. 

How do you suppose all this was found out ? A 
naturalist, who was curious to see what the horse- 
foot did with the food that he always pulled under 
his shell, waited till he was hard at work at hie din- 
ner, and then very coolly turned him over on his 
back. Mr. Limulus was too busy to mind, so he 
went on eating, and the naturalist saw the whole 
performance. 

But I haven't told you half the wonderful things 
about him. When he is first hatched he is a quarter 
of an inch in diameter, has no tail, and has a shell 
just the right size for him, of course. When he 
gets bigger he outgrows the shell, as you young- 
sters do your clothes, and he has to get out of the 
old suit. It's a very droll sight to see him come 
out of himself in that way. He don't have so much 
trouble about it as lobsters and some other crabs do 
— he just splits open the front edge of his shell, and 
pulls himself out. But you know he has been 
growing some time since that baby suit fitted him, 
and the fact is, he has been very much crowded 
these last few days. So when he gets fairly out of 
the shell, he swells out an inch or two bigger than 
he was before, and in a short time he has another 
shell big enough for him, besides a little sharp tail. 

So he goes on as long as he lives, throwing off 
his old shells and getting new ones. 



i874.) 



PETER PARROT. 



263 



This interesting little fellow is well supplied with 
eyes, having two large ones up high on the shell, 
to see all about with, and two more in front. 

I must tell you how Mamma Horse-foot makes her 
nursery. In May or June, when she has, perhaps, 
half a pint of eggs under her shell, and when the 
tide is in — that is, the water is up high on the shore 
— she comes up on the sand as far as she can 
without getting out of the water. She then digs a 
hole, and puts the eggs into it — and that's just all she 
does about it, and she never sees one of the babies. 

The next wave covers these eggs up with sand, 
the hot sun hatches them out, and the little ones 
know everything belonging to a crab's education, 
and can take care of themselves the minute they 
come out of the shell. But the drollest part of the 
business is the behavior of Mr. Limulus. He 
wants to see that the eggs are properly laid in the 
sand, and he doesn't want the trouble of walking, so 
the lazy fellow jumps upon Mamma Limulus's shell, 
and lets her carry him up, and back again in the 



same way. That's most as lazy as our noble red 
men, who sit and smoke while their wives work for 
them. 

While I am writing of crabs, I want to tell you 
a story about some cousins of the king crab family. 

It is about the land crabs of St. Domingo. The 
Spanish had the town, and the English wanted to 
get it away. After some fighting, the English, 
who were in ships, sent a party ashore in the night 
to surprise the soldiers, and seize the town. 

As they were forming on the shore, they heard 
a great clashing and clattering, and they thought 
the whole Spanish army was after them ; so they 
ran to their boats and fled. 

In the morning it turned out that the noise was 
made by the crabs, who come out of their burrows 
in the sand at night to seek their food. 

In honor of this exploit, the people have every 
year a great feast, in which a solid gold crab is car- 
ried about the town in profession. It is called the 
Feast of the Crabs. 



PETER PARROT. 



By Rose Terry Cooke. 



Peter in the window sits. 

Turning round his cool, red eye, 
Looking strange, and cross and shy, 

As from ring to perch he flits, 
Hanging there by claw or beak — 
Sometimes looking up to speak. 

"Pretty Polly," oft he says — 
Half in question, half to see 
If his simple vanity 
Finds an echo in my praise ; 

Sometimes he will laugh and cry 
At the people passing by. 

Then he stops to sneeze or cough ; 
All his red, and green and gold 
Cannot fright away the cold, 

Cannot keep the winter off"; 

Ruffled feathers, rough and dim, 
Tell Jack Frost hath bitten him. 

Much I wonder if he thinks, 
Sitting in the pallid sun, 
Of that life, so long since done, 

Where the long liana's links, 

Swinging slow, from palm to palm. 
Cradled him in tropic calm. 



Does he hear the bell-bird's cry, 
When we think him half asleep ? 
Or, do forest odors creep 

Through his troubled memory, 
Telling tales of happy hours, 
'Mid a thousand gorgeous flowers ? 

Does he ever seem to see 
Gayer brethren of his kind 
Flying on the torrid wind — 

Perched on every stately tree, — 
Toucans, paroquets, macaws, 
Chattering on without a pause? 

Does he see the monkeys swinging 
Here and yon along the vines ; 
Or, when cool the moonlight shines, 

Hear the. Indian shrilly singing, 
On the river's gleaming breast. 
Floating homeward to his rest? 

Pretty Polly ! homesick bird ! 

Or, is all my pity wasted? 

Are these joys, that once you tasted, 
Vanished like a song half heard ? 

Are you just as pleased to squall 

From the window, "Pretty Poll?" 



264 



W RECKED AT HO M E . 



[ March, 



WRECKED AT HOME. 



By Noah Brooks. 



There were ten of us. The amount of fun that 
ten hearty boys can get from common things has 
never been ciphered out. Arithmetic will not 
reach it. Fairport is a small and very old 
town on Penobscot Bay. In my day, the Fairport 
boys were said (by outsiders, mind) to be the very 



But when there were ten of us hungrily looking 
around for something uncommonly daring, you 
must guess that there was danger ahead. Ben 
Dennett was the eldest ; fifteen years old in May, he 
thought himself fit to lead in all adventures. His 
plan was to go down to the Lower Fort and fire off 





kt AS WE MERRILY TUMBLED OVER THE RISING WAVES.' 



worst boys in the State of Maine. They were ever in 
mischief — or fun, which in those times was about 
the same thing. Still, it does not seem to me, 
even now, that we boys deserved the name for bad- 
ness that we got. There was no malice nor dis- 
honesty in the fun of the Fairport boys of Eighteen 
Hundred and Something — for this was a good 
while ago. Tying up door-knockers, ringing the 
door-bell at unseasonable hours of the day or night, 
firing the old cannon in the abandoned fort, nailing 
up the school-house door, or hoisting Farmer 
Gray's old horse into the hayloft, did not seem 
grave crimes. 

Boating, fishing, going in swimming, hunting 
for clams, and general prancing about the wharves 
of the old town, and the shores of the sea-washed 
peninsula on which it sleeps, were the chief de- 
lights of the boys of that period. The boy who, at 
the mature age of twelve, could not row cross- 
handed, bait a cod-line, or steer a boat, was not of 
much account. When we could beg, borrow, or 
otherwise make off with a boat, we were happy. 
My heart aches as I think of the anxious mothers 
who worried, day after day, about the graceless 
scamps who disobeyed orders and went skylarking 
on the water. The same kind Providence that 
watches over the life of the sailor clinging to the 
icy rigging, far up aloft, and at sea, seems to hold 
a hand of safety under the seaside boy. 



one of the rusty old twenty-pounders that lay slum- 
bering peacefully in the grass. 

"Nice fun!" roared Rufe Parker. "Where's 
your powder ? " 

" Where 's your money to buy it with ? " yelped 
little Bill Keeler, who was known to have four-and- 
sixpence in bank. 

Somebody else, Hal Stevens, I think, suggested 
Tilden's orchard : but it was notoriously early in 
the season, and Jerry Murch, who hated castor oil, 
said that green apples were not fit for a pig to eat. 

" Then don't eat 'em, piggy." snapped in Dandy 
Blake, — a disagreeable little prig, who was always 
saying smart things. 

Symptoms of a row were quelled at once by Ben 
Dennet, who, after turning two or three hand- 
springs to collect his thoughts, shouted, " I've got 
it ! I've got it ! Let's go over to Grampus Rock ! " 

Breathless at the boldness of this plan, nobody 
said a word, though everybody's eyes snapped at 
the bare idea of it. 

How to get there : 

Grampus Rock lies two miles off the mouth of 
the harbor, almost in sight of the town, and only 
partly hidden by a bend in the bay, which shuts in 
the rock from the houses on the hill-top. 

But it is a great place for gulls' eggs in the early 
summer ; and two or there of us had been there 
wkh our big brothers or other grown people. 



l8 74 -J 



W R E C K E D A T HOME. 



265 



There were traditions, too, of the fragments of 
the wreck of the bark Grampus being found among 
the rocks ; or there might be treasures in the clefts 
of the tall crag, which still bore the name of the old 
merchant bark, cast away there years ago ; doub- 
loons, perhaps, or Spanish dollars and pieces-of- 
eight, such as were dug up on Grindle's farm, upon 
the Doshen shore. 

Delicious thought ! But how to get there ? 

" My pa has gone off the Neck," piped little Sam 
Snowman ; " we might take his boat." 

Old Snowman's boat was a big, clumsy thing, — 
once a ship's jolly-boat, — and now rather rotten. 
We knew her well enough. More than once, led 
on by faithless little Sam, we had stolen away in 
the crazy old thing. But nobody was afraid ; and 
we agreed to try her once more. 

Separating into small squads, so as not to attract 
the notice of the few people who lounged in their 




' SIT DOWN', OR YOU 'l.L GET PITCHED OVERBOARD.' 



store doors or sunned themselves on the wharves, 
these ten young scamps met under Stearns's wharf, 
where the boat lay fast to the steps. Stepping gin- 
gerly over the oozy planks, and well bedaubed with 
slime, we tumbled into the Red Rover,—; as we there 
and then named her, — sculled her softly along from 
wharf to wharf, carefully keeping out of sight, until 
we reached the last pier, near Stevens' cooper-shop, 
then boldly pushed out into open water, secure from 
pursuit — if not from observation. 
Was there ever such a lark ! 
There we were — ten of us — masters of the Red 
Rover, of tlie Bloody Seas, as Jem Conner, who had 
" The Pirate's Own Book" at his tongue's end, call- 
ed our craft. We resolved to hoist the black flag; 
and Jerry Murch's jacket, which was "almost 
black." as well as very seedy, was held aloft on an 
oar; but that bit of wood being needed for rowing, 
we hauled down our colors. The tide ran out 
swiftly, — for it was still on the ebb, — 
and we got on famously, though the 
short, chopping waves bothered us 
somewhat. By hard tugging and 
much squabbling over the steering 
oar, we managed to keep the Red 
Rover's head against the wind, which 
blew freshly from the south. Ben 
Dennett insisted that he should steer, 
and, being the biggest boy, he man- 
aged to keep hold of the oar most of 
the time, while the rest of us took 
turns at rowing. 

But little Sam Snowman thought 
he ought to steer ; it was his father's 
boat ; and if anything happened to 
her, he would " catch it." 

" Yes ; and you '11 catch it anyhow, 
you young monkey," growled Ben. 
who had quite a bass voice, and ac- 
tually wore suspenders. The rest of 
us had trousers "buttoned on," which 
gave him a leading part; so he steered; 
and nice work he made of it. 

It was jolly to see the sleepy old 
town grow dim and dimmer in the 
summer air as we merrily tumbled 
over the rising waves. Down past 
Hatch's wharf, where a lobster schooner 
lay reeking in the sun, past the white 
KfSljj lighthouse at the point, past Otter 
Rock, brown with kelp and washed 
with the waves, we dropped, Jem Con- 
ner making a formal declaration of 
war against Weeks's salmon weir as 
we rowed by it. 

Tommy Collins, who had never 
been so far from home, and whom we 



266 



WRECKED AT HOME. 



[Maeci 



had vainly tried to run away from, had a sudden 
qualm of homesickness, and began to cry, much to 
the disgust and astonishment of all on board. 

'"Belay your deck-pumps there, youngster!" 
shouted Ben Dennett. " What did you come here 
for, you little beggar, if you wanted your ma ? " 

" Oh, avast heaving, skipper ! " put in Jem Con- 
ner. " Don't you see Tommy 's only making be- 
lieve cry?" , 
This ingenious turn put all in good humor. 
Tommy, comforted by a slate pencil and a piece 
of spruce gum, which generous Jack Adams pro- 
duced from his trousers pocket, wiped away his 
tears, or, as Jack put it, " Stowed his brine; " for 
sailor talk was the rule now, as became a crew of 
pirate boys. 

"'Fellers!" said Jem Conner, flourishing a 
hatchet, the only loose piece of property found on 
board, "Fellers! be bloody, brave and desperate, 
and we shall be the terror of the seas. My Uncle 
Joe has gone to Long Island in the Post Boy ; and 
if we catch him we '11 pour a broadside into him, 
and cut him down to the water's edge." 

"Oh, blow your Uncle Joe!" said Jack Adams — 
whom we usually called, "The Bloody Mutineer," 
on account of his namesake of the mutineers of the 
ship Bounty, — "sit down and trim ship, or you '11 
get pitched overboard." Jem sat down, abashed; 
for the Red Rover was rolling fearfully, and little 
Tommy Collins, deathly seasick, was whining and 
whooping over the side of the boat. 

We would have put back, but the tide was still 
running out. Besides, the tall gray and white 
crags of Grampus Rock were now looming over- 
head. The sea grew smoother, but the current. 



which strikes the rock at low tide with great forct 
set us sharply toward the outer point of the reel 
that reaches out to the north-west. 

"Hard a-starboard ! " yelled Bill Keeler. 




' WE WERE SH1PWRECKEE 




THE CASTAWAYS. 



" Helm a-lec ! " screamed Rufe Parker. 

"Down! down with your helium!" said Jerry 
Murch. 

Bewildered by these contradictory orders, and 
overpowered by the crowd of 
boys who rushed aft to take 
the steering-oar from him, 
Ben yawed the boat wildly 
around ; the tide took her 
hard and fast on the rocks ; 
she heeled over, went to 
pieces, and in a jiffy we were 
all overboard. Each boy 
scrambled among the weedy 
rocks. Ben Dennett swim- 
ming with Tommy Collins 
on his back, though the 
water was only knee-deep. 

There was a rush of waves, 
a stifled scream or two, and 
ten boys were flung on the 
reef, very wet, and too as- 
tonished to laugh or cry. 
We were shipwrecked. 
Jack Adams was the first 
to speak, " Here's a go." 






8 74 .] 



WRECKED AT HOME. 



267 



Those are the very words he said. ' ' I wish 
I had something to eat," whined Rufe Parker. 
Rufe was always stuffing himself. Then two or 
three of the smaller boys began to cry. But 
Tommy Collins, to our great surprise, took things 
very comfortably. He said he was glad to be 
ashore, anyhow. My private opinion was that he 
had n't been homesick at all. He was only sea- 
sick. 

But we were in a bad fix. The town was two 
miles off, and only the lower edge of it in sight. 
We mites of boys could not possibly be seen on 
that great rock. Our boat was in fragments on the 
shore ; and our hearts sank as we thought of Old 
Snowman's wrath. Poor little Sam whimpered when 
one of the boys reminded him how he would 
"catch it," now. Some of us began to think we 
might never get home where we could " catch it." 
And how lovely the far-off town looked as we 
gazed back at it. Sunning itself in the green and 
elm-covered peninsula, home never seemed so beau- 
tiful before. A great lump rose up in my throat as 
I looked on the dome of horse chestnut trees that 
hid my father's house. Would my little white bed 
be vacant to-night? Would I ever sleep in it 
again ? Could Aunt Rachel, from her long, red 
house down by the wharf, see the poor little midget 
who sorrowfully roosted on the wet crags ? 

But what boy is long in the dumps about any- 
thing? We, at least, could climb to the tip-top of 
Grampus Rock ; and climb we did. The exertion 
warmed us, and gave us new life. We danced 
about in the warm afternoon sunshine, and laid new 
plans. We were not Robinson Crusoes exactly, 
but ten Robinson Crusoes, which was much more 
jolly. True, our spirits sank when we reflected 
that there was no water on the rock, nor any game, 
not so much as a gull, nor an egg. We had been 
deceived. The rock, rough and splintered as it 
was, was as bare of eggs as the sea itself. Here 
and there were knots of dry sea-weed, packed in the 
crevices, ill-smelling bones which the fish-hawks had 
left ; and around the base of the rocks were mussels 
and limpets in plenty. 

"Hurrah! boys!" shouted Jack Adams, "we 
can live on mussels — at least for a day or two," he 
added, somewhat sobered by the prospect. 

A passing pinkey, beating against the tide, 
raised our hopes. As she neared our rock, we 
jumped up and down on the sloping summit, yell- 
ing to attract attention. On, on she came, cutting 
the green water as she luffed up to the wind. Our 
shrill cries were heard, and Captain Booden — how 
well we knew him — growled surlily back at us, put 
up his helm, fluttered the sails of the Two Brothers 
in the breeze, turned and sailed away, wondering 
what those young monkeys were up to now, sky- 



larking on Grampus. The next tack took him far 
below us, and the little craft soon stretched away 
into the dim blue depths of Somes' Sound. 

The sun slowly sank behind the Camden Mount- 
ains. The rosy sky grew gray. Night was coming 
on faster than we had ever known before. It was 
no longer fun to scramble among the rocks. We 
were chained to our prison ; and Bill Keeler, who, 
now that he is grown up, writes poetry for the 
magazines, said, looking up into the darkening sky. 
"I would I were yonder eagle; how I would fly 
me from hence ! " 

'"Taint an eagle; it's a loon," growled Ben 
Dennett. But little Sam cried outright. 

We crawled down to the water's edge again. It 
was less lonely to huddle together under the lee of 
the rocks and gaze at the distant town than to stay 
on the peak, where the night wind began to blow. 
Two of the boys got to fighting about a soft place 
in the rock, which both wanted. This roused us 
for a moment ; but when Jem Conner had punched 
the heads of the quarrelers, and crawled into the 
coveted place himself, we grew silent again. 




IT S GITCHELL S BOAT ! 



Tommy Collins got on his knees, and repeated, 
"Now, I lay me," and several other little prayers. 
Though we said nothing, we all thought it was a 
good thing for us that somebody was not ashamed 
to pray. 

But the rebellious little hearts on Grampus mostly 



268 



MAKE - BELIEVE 



[ March 



thought it a very hard case that we should be for- 
gotten so soon by the people on shore ; for we be- 
lieved we were forgotten ; and many a hungry little 
rogue grew homesick, as he tried to guess what his 
folks at home had for supper as they gathered about 
the table, and wondered where the truant was. 

The lights twinkled across the bay, mocking the 
poor little chaps huddled under the rocks, sore, 
weary and not well clad to endure the chilly breeze 
that comes breaking in from the sea. 

The new moon swam lightly down in the west ; 
the bay grew stiller yet. and the lapping of the tide 
on the reef was all the sound they heard. 

"A sail! a sail, sail, sail, ahoy!" deliriously 
shouted Jerry Murch. 

Sure enough; right in the wake of the glimmer- 



ing lights of Fairport, was a large sail-boat. Th< 
little company of limp and languid boys was al 
alive in an instant ; even Tommy Collins darted up 
in the dark shadow of the rock, and shouted 
" Saved, — by golly ! " 

"It 's Gitchell's boat." 

" 'T aint ; it 's Hatch's.'' 

" /say it 's Morey's." 

" Pooh ! I tell you it 's Gitchell's." 

In the midst of the dispute (for every boy had a 
natural pride in his marine knowledge), the boat 
which had been standing directly for Grampus 
glided along shore, sank into the uncertain shadows 
and was seen no more. 

We were not saved after all ; and we fell into 
great dismay. 



( Concluded tiCA-t month. I 



MAKE-BELIEVE. 



By S. S. H. 



"We'll play it's Christmas. Bessie. 
And we '11 have a Christmas tree. 
And when it 's all, all ready, 
We '11 call Mamma to see. 










" 'T was just to s'prise us, Bessie, 
And, now, won't it be fun 
To make Mamma a Christmas tree, 
And call her, when it 's done ! " 

Then Amy stuck the duster-brush 
Through the cane seat of a chair, 

And she and Bessie went to work — 
A merry little pair. 

They hung its drooping branches 
As full as they could hold; 

Trimmed them with motto-papers, 
Yellow and green and gold. 

With many a gleeful whisper, 
And many a cautious "hush ! " 

Did Bess and Amy make it gay — 
That pretty duster-brush. 

• Oh ! oh ! " cried Amy, at the last; 
•■ I never did ! Did you ? 
Just see the sp'endid little things, 
And gold a-shinin' through ! 

' We have n't any candles, 

But we '11 play the whole day-light 
Is 'cause there 's lots of candles 
All lit, and burning bright. 



"Don't you remember Christmas? 
That was the way, you know,- 
We could n't see a single thing, 
And we did want to so ! 



' Let 's call Mamma now, Bessie ; 

And, oh ! how s'pnsed she '11 be 
To see we 've got a Christmas, 
And made a Christmas tree ! " 



tttx.8.74-1 



RASCALLY SANDY. 



RASCALLY SANDY. 
By Robert Dale Owen. 



I AM now more than seventy years old; but I re- 
member very well that, in my earliest years, I was 
a self-willed youngster, and that I sometimes gave 
way to violent fits of passion. Perhaps you, my 
young friends who read St. Nicholas, would like 
to know what came of this when I was about seven 
years old. I have recently told the story for grown- 
up people in a book which I called, " Threading 
my Way," because it speaks of what I thought and 
did when like you. I had not been very long in 
the world, and so did not know much, and was 
groping about, as a traveler might who is not sure 
of the right road and is trying hard to find it. 

I 'm going to tell you that story, not just as I told 
it there, but a little more as I think you would like 
to hear it. It is the same child, only, as it is going 
into younger company, it is somewhat differently 
dressed for the occasion. 

I had an excellent father and mother. 

We lived in those days, and for many years after, 
at a very pretty place called Braxfield House. It 
was on the banks of the Clyde, which, your geogra- 
phy will tell you, is one of the principal rivers of 
Scotland. The house stood on a piece of rolling 
land, with blue grass pastures, where many sheep 
fed; and the slope from the pasture to the river 
was covered with thick woods, through which gravel 
paths wound back and forth. 

Our house was about half way between New Lan- 
ark — a village where my father had a large cotton 
factory, in which many children worked — and the 
ancient shire-town of Lanark. When you read 
about Sir William Wallace, in the history of Scot- 
land, you will hear a good deal about Lanark. 
They used in old times, to have near by, on what 
was called "The Moor," luappin schaws j that 
means, " weapon shows," or reviews of armed 
soldiers. 

Now, as there was no post-office in the village, 
one of our workmen, called James Dunn, an old 
spinner, who had lost an arm by its being caught 
in the machinery of the mill, was our letter-carrier 
— the bearer of a handsome leather bag, with gay 
brass padlock, which gave him a sort of official dig- 
nity with us young people. 

If James Dunn had lost one arm, he made excel- 
lent use of the other ; making bows and arrows and 
fifty other nice things for our amusement, and thus 
coming into distinguished favor. One day he gave 
me a clay pipe, showed me how to mix soap-water 
in due proportion, and then, for the first time in 



our lives, we children witnessed the marvelous rise, 
from the pipe-bowl, of the brightly variegated bub- 
ble ; its slow, graceful ascent into upper air : and, 
alas ! its sudden disappearance, at the very climax 
of our wonder. My delight was beyond all bounds ; 
and so was my gratitude to the one-armed magician. 
I take credit for this last sentiment, to make up for 
the crime which was to follow. 

We had in the house a sort of odd-job boy, who 
ran errands, helped now and then in the stables, 
carried coals to the fires, and whose early-morning 
duty it was to clean the boots and shoes of the 
household. His parents had named him, at the 
fount, after the Macedonian conqueror, the cele- 
brated Alexander the Great, of whom you have 
read, or will read by and by ; but their son, unlike 
King Philip's, was nick-named Sandy. 

Sandy, according to my recollection of him, was 
the worst of bad boys. His chief pleasure seemed 
to consist in inventing modes of vexing and enrag- 
ing us ; and he was quite ingenious in his tricks of 
petty torture. Add to this that he was very jealous 
of James Dunn's popularity ; especially when we 
told him, as we often did, that we hated him. 

One day my brother William, a year younger 
than myself, and I had been out blowing soap- 
bubbles ("all by ourselves," as we were wont to 
boast, in proof that we were getting to be big boys), 
and had returned triumphant. In the courtyard 
we met Sandy, to whom, forgetting, for the mo- 
ment, by-gone squabbles, we joyfully related our 
exploits, and broke out into praises of the pipe- 
giver as the nicest man that ever was. That nettled 
the young scamp, and he began to abuse our well- 
beloved post-carrier as a " lazy loun that hadna' but 
yin arm, and could do naething with the tither but 
cowp letters into the post-office and make up bairns' 
trashtrie" (by which he meant a lazy fellow, with 
one arm only, who could do nothing but empty 
letters into the post-office, and make up trash for 
children). 

This made me angry, and I suppose I must have 
given him some bitter reply ; whereupon Sandy 
snatched the richly prized pipe from my hand, broke 
off its stem close to the bowl, and threw the frag- 
ments into what we used to call the "shoe-hole : " 
not a very proper name for a small outhouse, hard 
by, where our tormentor discharged his duties as 
shoe-black. 

We hated to be set down as tell-tales, so we did 
not say a word about this to father or mother. But 



'.JO 



RASCALLY SANDY. 



[Marci 

_ 



when, an hour later, 'I burst into tears at the sight 
of James Dunn, I had to tell him our story. He 
made light of it, wisely remarking that there were 
more pipes in the world ; and, shouldering his post- 
bag, went off to the "auld toun." 

You may imagine my joyful surprise when, on 
his return, he gave me another pipe. 

I took it up to an attic room of which I had the 
run when I wished to be alone ; locked the door, 
with a vague feeling as if Sandy were at my heels ; 
sat down and gazed on the new treasure. The very 
same as the pipe I had tearfully mourned ! brand 
new, just from the shop. But the delight its first 
sight had given me faded when I thought of the 
sacrifices that dear, good man had been making 
for my sake. It was so generous of him to give 
me the first pipe ! I had no idea whatever of its 
money value ; to me it was beyond price. Then 
here his generosity had been taxed a second time. 
Again he had been spending for me out of his 
wages, which I supposed must be small, since he 
had only one arm to work with. And who had 
been the cause of all this woful sacrifice ? That 
vile, cruel, rascally Sandy ! To him it was due 
that James Dunn had felt compelled to make a 
second purchase, — to the stinting, perhaps, of his 
poor wife and children ! And — who could tell ? — 
the same cruel ill-turn might be repeated again and 
again. Ah ! then my indignation rose, till I could 
hear the heart-beats. 

I remember distinctly that no plans of revenge 
had arisen in my mind caused by the destruction 
of my first pipe, however enraged I was at the per- 
petrator of that outrage. It was only when I found 
one of my dearest friends thus plundered, on my 
account, that my wrath, roused to white heat, gave 
forth vapors of vengeance. 

I brooded over the matter all day. so that I can't 
plead that what I did was on the spur of the mo- 
ment. Toward evening my plans took shape ; and, 
ere I slept, which was long after I went to bed, 
every detail had been arranged. My adversary- 
was a large, stout, lubberly fellow, more than twice 
my age ; and I had to make up in stratagem for 
my great inferiority in strength. 

Next morning, before the nursery-maid awoke, 
I crept slyly from bed, dressed in silence, went 
down stairs to the courtyard, and armed myself 
with a broom : not one of your light, modern, 
broom-corn affairs, but a downright heavy thing, 
with a stout handle and heavy wooden cross-head, 
set with bristles. It was as much as I could do to 
wield it. 

Then I took a look at the enemy's camp. No 
Sandy yet in the " shoe-hole !" I went in, set the 
door ajar, and took post, with uplifted weapon, be- 
hind it. 



I had long to wait, Sandy being late that morn 
ing ; but my wrath only boiled the more hotly fo 
the delay. At last there was a step, and the doo 
moved. Down with all the might of rage cairn 
the broom — the hard end of the cross-piece fore 
most — on the devoted head that entered. The foi 
sank on the ground. I sprang forward — but wha 
was this ? The head I had struck had on a beauti 
ful white lace cap ! It flashed on me in a moment 
I had struck not the Sandy I hated, but our kind, 
good housekeeper, Miss Wilson ! 

Miss Wilson was a nice, orderly, painstaking, 
neatly-dressed lady, tnirty-five or forty years old. 
She understood all about keeping house and man- 
aging servants ; and she was very gentle too, and 
much inclined to make pets of the children around 
her. Next to James Dunn she was our greatest 
favorite. I am afraid one reason why we loved her 
was rather a selfish one, My mother had allowed 
her to have us children all to tea with her every 
Sunday evening, on condition that each cup was to 
be two-thirds of warm water ; but nothing was said 
about how much sugar we might have. 

Now, in that country, and in those days, young 
folk, both gentle and simple, were restricted to 
very frugal fare. For breakfast, porridge (that is, 
oatmeal mush) and milk; for supper, bread and 
milk only. At dinner we were helped once spar- 
ingly to animal food, and once only to pie or pud- 
ding; but we had as many vegetables and as much 
oatmeal cake as we chose. Scottish children under 
the age of fourteen were rarely allowed either tea 
or coffee ; and such was the rule in our house. 
Till we were eight or ten years old we were not 
admitted to the evening meal in the parlor. 

Miss Wilson's tea-table furnished the only peep 
we had of the Chinese luxury. 

Thus the Sunday evening in the housekeeper's 
parlor (for Miss Wilson had her own nicely fur- 
nished parlor between the kitchen and the servants' 
dining-hall) was something to which we looked 
eagerly forward. On that occasion we had toast as 
well as tea; and the banquet sometimes ended with 
a well-filled plate of sugar-biscuit, a luxury dearly 
prized because it was so rare. 

These weekly feastings gave rise among us to a 
somewhat singular name for the first day of the 
week. We took this, not from the sermons we 
heard, or the catechism we learnt on that day, but 
from *he nice things on Miss Wilson's table; some- 
what irreverently calling Sunday the toast-biscicit- 
tea-day. I am not certain whether this new name 
of ours ever reached my mother's ears ; for Miss 
Wilson was too discreet to retail the confidential 
jokes which we permitted ourselves in the privacy 
of her little suppers. 

Under the circumstances, one may judge of my 



--S74-] 



RASCALLY SANDY. 



271 



.-;- horror when I saw on whom the broom-head had 
(.fallen. The sight stunned me almost as much as 
idlimy blow had stunned the poor woman who lay 
;~, before me. I have a dim recollection of people, 
, : - . called in by my screams, raising Miss Wilson and 
: helping her to her room ; and then I remember 
-, nothing more till I found myself, many hours later, 
jj.in the library; my mother standing by with her 
)l . eyes red, and my father looking at me more in 
; sorrow than in anger. 

" Would n't you be very sorry, Robert," he said 
at last, " if you were blind ? " 

I assented, as well as my sobs would allow. 
" Well, when a boy or man is in such a rage as 
you were, he is little better than blind or half mad. 
He doesn't stop to think or to look at anything. 
You didn't know Miss Wilson from Sandy." 

My conscience told me that was true. I had 
struck without waiting to look. 

"You may be very thankful," my father went 
on, " that it was n't Sandy. You might have 
killed the boy. " 

I thought it would have been no great harm if I 
had, but I did n't say so. 

" Are you sorry for what you have done ? " 
I said that I was very, very sorry that I had hurt 
Miss Wilson, and that I wanted to tell her so. My 
father rang the bell and sent to inquire how she 
was. 

"I am going to take you to ask her pardon. 
But it 's of no use to be sorry unless you do better. 
Remember this ! / liave never struck you. You 
must never strike anybody." 

It was true. I cannot call to mind that I ever, 
either before or since that time, received a blow 
from any human being ; most thankful am I that 
I have been spared the knowledge of how one 
feels under such an insult. Nor, from that day 
forth, so far as I remember, did I ever give a blow 
in anger again. 

The servant returned. " She has a sair head 

' yet, sir ; but she 's muckle better. She 's sittin' up 

in her chair, and would be fain to see the bairn." 



Then, in an undertone, looking at me : "It was a 
fell crunt, yon. I didna think the bit callan could 
hit sae snell." 

I ought here to tell you that servants and other 
working people in Scotland generally speak in a 
curious dialect, called "broad Scotch," as you 
may have seen, or will some day see, in Walter 
Scott's novels. The servant meant to say that 
"Miss Wilson's head still pained her, but she was 
much better, and would be glad to see the child ; ' 
adding, " That was an awful blow on the head ; I 
did n't think the slip of a boy could hit so hard." 

When I saw Miss Wilson in her arm-chair, with 
pale cheeks and bandaged head, I could not say a 
single word. She held out her arms ; I flung mine 
round her neck, kissed her again and again, and 
then fell to crying long and bitterly. The good 
soul's eyes were wet as she took me on her knee 
and soothed me. When my father offered to take 
me away I clung to her so closely that she begged 
to have me stay. 

I think the next half hour, in her arms, had 
crowded into it more sincere repentance and more 
good resolves for the future than any other in my 
life. Then, at last, my sobs subsided, so that I 
could pour into her patient ear the whole story of 
my grievous wrongs : Sandy's unexampled wicked- 
ness in breaking the first pipe ; James Dunn's un- 
heard-of generosity in buying the second ; the 
little chance I had if I did n't take the broom to 
such a big boy ; and then — 

" But, Miss Wilson," I said, when I came to 
that point, "what made you come to the shoe-hole, 
and not Sandy ? " 

" I wanted to see if the boy was attending to his 
work. " 

I then told her I would love her as long as she 
lived, and that she must n't be angry with me ; 
and when she had promised to love me too, we 
parted. 

It only remains to be said, that about a month 
afterwards, Sandy was quietly dismissed. We all 
breathed more freely when he was gone. 




272 



ELFIN JACK, THE GIAN'T-KILLER. 



[Marc 



ELFIN JACK, THE GIANT-KILLER. 

By J. S. Stacy. 

Do not think the story 
Of the giant-killer's glory 
Is only known and cherished by yourselves, 
O, my dears ; 
For his deeds so daring, 
And his trick of scaring 
All his foes, are quite familiar to the elves, 
It appears. 

In the starlight, tender — 
In the moonlight's splendor 
Do they gather and recount every deed, 
It is said ; 
How he met a hornet, 
Who was playing on a cornet, 
Out of tune, and he slew him with a reed, — 
Slew him dead ! 




How, growing ever bolder, 
With his reed upon his shoulder, 
And an acorn-shield upon his little arm — 
Well equipped — 
He sought a mighty giant, 
Who was known as "Worm, the pliant.' 
And after giving battle, fierce and warm. 
Left him whipped. 



ELFIN JACK, THE GIANT-KILLER. 



■73 



How he saw a spider 
With her victim, dead, inside her, 
Told her, in a voice of fury, to begone 
From his sight ; 
How he killed her when she 'd risen 
To her cruel, fatal prison, 
And nobly freed her captives, so forlorn, — 
Gallant knight ! 




Ah, but the elves are proudest, 
And ring his praises loudest, 
When telling of a snail, grim and hoary. 
In his mail. 
With those fearful horns before him, 
Jack gallantly upbore him, 
And killed him with a thrust (to his glory) 
In the tail ! 

List in the starlight, tender, — 
List in the moonlight's splendor, — 
For a whirring, like hurrahing, in the glen. 
Far and near. 
'T is the elves who, looking back 
To their giant-killer, Jack, 
Tell his story to each other, funny men 1 
With a cheer. 



Vol. I.— if 




274 



MAKING S N W . 



(Marc ■ 



MAKING SNOW. 

By james Richardson. 



" Oh, Kitty ! conic and see what a naivful 
heavy frost ! It 's all over everything, — ever so 
thick." 

" Why, you little goosey ! That is n't frost, — 
.' 's snow." 

" Snow? What is snow ?" 

" Just think, papa, Tommy does n't know what 
snow is ! " 

" Tommy was a baby when the snow was here 
last winter, and he does n't remember it. You 
must tell him." 

" Why snow is, — nothing but snow ! Everybody 
knows what snow is, papa." 

" Tommy does n't, you see. Tell him." 

"I'll get some for him. See, Tommy, this is 
snow." 

" It 's white, like frost, — and cold, — and wet." 

" But it is n't frost, — it 's snow. It came out of 
the sky last night." 

" Did it ? I did n't see any when I went to bed. 
And it is n't frost ? " 

"No, I tell you ; can't you believe me?" 

" It turns to water, like frost. See, it's all melt- 
ing." 

" Just listen to him, papa! He won't believe a 
word I say." 

" Do you know what frost is, Tommy?" 

" Yes, I know. It 's fine ice, like you scraped 
for me the other day." 

" Very well; now let us see if snow is anything 
like that. I will scrape some frost from the window, 
and Kitty will bring some snow from out-doors. 
Just a little, Kitty, on this piece cf paper. That 's 
right ; thank you. Now let us look at the two. 
Both are white ; both are cold ; and see ! both are 
turned to water by the warmth of the stove. What 
is the difference ? " 

" There is n't any difference." 

" Oh, yes, there is, Tommy. Snow falls out of 
the sky, — I 've seen it, — and frost does n't." 

" What makes it ? " 

" It is n't made ; it just comes." 

" What makes it come ? " 

" Did you ever see such a boy to ask questions, 
papa?" 

" A very good boy to ask questions, Kitty. I 
hope he will always ask them as sensibly. Let me 
try to make the matter clear to him. I think we '11 
get on best down in the big kitchen, where they 
are boiling clothes for the wash and filling the place 
with steam." 



" What has steam to do with snow, papa?" 

" Very much, as I '11 show you presently. Her 
we are ! Now, Tommy, can you tell us what we'vi 
come for ? " 

"You 're going to show us about snow, — how i 
makes itself, — are n't you ? " 

" I '11 try. You sec all this steam rising from thi 
boiler. Do you know what it is ? " 

"It's steam." 

" Yes, but what is steam ? " 

" Tommy does n't know, papa ; but I do. It ' 
water-vapor. You told me that a good while ago. 

" See, Tommy ; when I hold this cold shove 
over the kettle it turns some of the steam back tc 
water again. The shovel is all wet now." 

" Where does the rest of the steam go to ? " 

" The air drinks it up, — dissolves it, just as youi 
tea dissolves the sugar put into it, — and you can't 
see it any more. But the cold door-knob or the 
cold window-glass brings it out again ; see how wet 
they are. That is from the steam in the air. You wil 
remember, Kitty, what I told you about the dew 
that forms on the grass on cool summer evenings 
and how in the fall, when it is colder, the dew 
freezes and makes frost. Here by the stove it is so 
warm that the dew cannot freeze on the windows 
and nails and door-hinges. Further away, a little 
frost forms around the cracks where the cold air 
comes in ; and see ! here in the corner, where it is 
very cold (it 's so far from the stove), all the nails 
have frost on them, and the window panes are 
covered with it." 

" But how does the snow come?" 

"Be patient, Tommy, and I'll show you di- 
rectly." 

" You know, Kitty, that there 's a great deal of 
steam or water-vapor in this room, though you can- 
not see much of it. You know, too, that anything 
cold will turn the steam back to water again, and 
if it is very cold it will freeze the water and make 
frost of it. 

" Now, suppose the cold thing would n't let the 
frost stick to it, the frost would have to fall to the 
floor and then it would be snow. 

"Cold air acts that way; it freezes the vapor, 
but cannot hold the frost. On very cold days I Ve 
seen a real little snow storm made in a hot, steamy 
room just by opening a window or a door. 

"Maybe it's cold enough for it to-day. We 
can try, anyhow, and if we fail we can try again 
some colder day. 



1874-1 



MAKING SNOW. 



75 



"Here, where the air is warm and steamy, I '11 
open the window at the top so that the cold wind 
will blow in. Look sharp, now ! " 

" I can see them ! I can see them ! Real snow- 
flakes ! Oh, Tommy, see ! Is n't it funny to make 
a snow storm in the kitchen ? " 

" Look again. There 's no snow flying outside ; 
but as soon as I open the window a little, and the 
cold air rushes in, the snow-flakes appear." 

" What makes them go out so quick?" 

" The warm air in the room melts them as soon 
as they fall into it." 

"Is that the way the snow is made up in the 
sky ? " 



" Precisely. Yesterday it was warm and wet, you 
will remember. There was a great deal of water- 
vapor in the air. Last night it grew cold, suddenly. 
A cold wind blew down on the warm, wet wind 
that had come up from the sea and chilled it, — as 
the cold wind coming in at the window chilled the 
air in the room, — and froze its vapor into snow. 
That is what made the snow storm last night. 

" You need n't look so wise, Tommy. You '11 
understand it better when you 're bigger." 

" I nunderstand it noiv, papa. The wind blowed 
and — and it made a nawful big frost ; did n't it ?" 

" A very big frost, Tommy." 

" That s what I said !" 




- »* 






276 



E MPRUNT I") E PEINE. 



(March, 



EMPRUNT DE PEINE. 



Par J. S. S. 



Il y a plus de deux cents ans vivaient en Castille 
un beau prince et une belle princesse qui posse- 
daient tout ce qu'un bon cceur humain peut avoir — • 
excepte de la peine. II semblait qu'il ne pouvait 
leur en arriver. lis etaient jeunes, pleins de sante, 
joyeux ; ils avaient des parents bons et tres riches, 
et de plus ils comptaient des amis qui avaient pour 
eux une sincere affection, ce qui est un tres rare 
bonheur pour les personnes de sang royal. Souvent 
la princesse disait : 

" Ferdinand, qu'est-ce que la peine ? Comment 
la sent-on ? " 



faits de cette reponse. Ils" s'adresserent en secret 
au plus puissant de leurs courtisans et, a leur grand 
etonnement, essuyerent un refus accompagne d'un 
sourire et d'une reverence ceremonieuse. 

Ils se rendirent meme aupres du bouffon de la 
cour. 

- " Ah ! c'est une tres precieuse chose que la 
peine ! " dit le bouffon. " On ne peut l'acheter, et 
elle ne peut s'obtenir par une simple demande. 
Mais vous pouvez Pemprunter." 

" Bon ! " s'ecria le couple enchante. " Nous en 
emprunterons pour le moment." 









\\U ')V*L I P filflll iHfifl % *-7* Ml! 





'COMMENT VOUS SENTEZ-VOUS, FERDINAND?" 



Et Ferdinand repondait : " Helas ! Isabelle, je 
ne le sais pas." 

" Demandons a nos parents de nous en donner, 
poursuivait Isabelle ; ils ne nous refusent jamais 
rien." 

Mais le roi et la reine fremirent a leur demande : 

" Non, non, chers enfants," s'ecrierent-ils, "vous 
ne savez pas ce que vous demandez. Priez que 
ces mauvais souhaits disparaissent de vos cceurs ! " 

Mais le prince et la princesse ne furent pas satis- 



" Mais," ajouta le bouffon, "si vous en em- 
pruntez, il faudra rendre en meme monnaie." 

" Helas ! " soupirerent le prince et la princesse, 
" comment pourrons-nous, si nous n'avons pas de 
peine qui soit a nous ? " 

" Eh bien ! en voila de la peine ! " prononca le 
bouffon, et il s'esquiva. 

" Qu'a-t-il voulu dire par ces paroles?" dit le 
prince, presque a bout de patience: " mais il ne 
faut pas s'en occuper, ce n'est qu'un fou." 



i8 7 4-] 



NIMPO S TROUBLES. 



277 



Puis, desesperes, les deux enfants allerent trouver 
leur fidele bonne qui etait restee au palais depuis 
leur naissance : 

" Chere Catherine," dirent-ils, "nous n'avons ja- 
mais eu de peine. Les pretres disent que c'est le 
commun lot des mortels. Avez-vous eu le votre ? " 

"Oh, oui ! mes mignons, j'ai toujours eu de la 
peine au dela de mes desirs ! " repondit tristement la 
vieille femme en branlant la tete. 

"Oh! oh! donnez-nous en, donnez-nous en, 
bonne Catherine," demanderent a.Penvi le prince 
et la princesse. 

Mais Catherine leva les mains en signe d'horreur 
et s'eloigna en chancelant et en marmottant des 
prieres. 

Alors le prince et la princesse descendirent dans 
le jardin et s'assirent sur un banc de mousse. 

" Personne ne nous donnera ce que nous avons 
demande," dit Isabelle ; " c'est tres dur." 

"Oui, tres dur," repeta Ferdinand en prenant 
la main de sa sceur. 

" Nos parents ne nous avaient jamais rien refuse 
auparavant," reprit Isabelle. 

" Jamais," repondit Ferdinand. 

" Ni les courtisans," ajouta Isabelle. 

" Ni les courtisans," repeta Ferdinand. 



" Ni notre chere vieille bonne," dit Isabelle, avec 
un sentiment etrange dans les yeux. 

" Ni notre chere bonne." 

" C'est de la mechancete." 

" C'est de l'insolence." 

" C'est de l'ingratitude." 

" Une tres grande ingratitude." 

" C'est de la cruaute ! " acheva Isabelle en san- 
glotant ; et mes yeux sont tout remplis de larmes ! 
"Comment vous sentez-vous, Ferdinand?" 

" Tres mal, Isabelle. Je pense que mes yeux se 
mouillent aussi de larmes ! " 

A ce moment-la le jardinier en chef venait de 
leur cote. II courut a eux. 

" Mon cher prince et ma chere princesse ! " 
s'ecria-t-il en se mettant a genoux devant eux ; 
"vous pleurez ! Ciel ! Penser que ces nobles et 
beaux enfants pouvaient avoir de la peine ! " 

" De la peine ! " repeterent en chceur Ferdinand 
et Isabelle. " Cela est de la peine, Carlos ! " 

" Assurement, je pense," repondit Carlos, fort 
intrigue. 

Alors le prince et la princesse se leverent vive- 
ment en battant des mains et ils coururent au palais 
heureux comme deux oiseaux. Leur vceu etait 
enfin exauce. 



[We shall be glad to see translations of this story from all of our young friends who are studying French, 
one received before March 15th shall be printed in our May number.] 



The best 



NIMPO'S TROUBLES. 
By Olive Thorne. 



Chapter V. 



THE FIRST SUNDAY. 



The next day was Sunday, and Nimpo was up 
early, feeling the responsibility of getting the boys 
and herself ready for church and Sunday-school. 

With all her desire for liberty, she never had so 
wild a dream as staying at home from church. 

In fact, in that village, one who deliberately 
stayed at home when he was able to stand, was 
looked upon as a desperate sinner. 

Nimpo did not feel prepared to face the public 
opinion of the whole town, especially as she was 
sure Mr. Binney, — the minister, — would notice her 
absence and speak about it. 

Mr. Binney was a very good man, and very 
earnest in doing good ; but his ways were very odd, 
and he was a perpetual terror to Nimpo. 

He was a tall, thin man, with reddish hair and 



whiskers. The whiskers began where the hair left 
off, and so his pale face was always framed in a sort 
of golden halo, which alone made it something 
awful. But this was nothing to his eyes. They 
were very large, and of that sharp kind that seem 
to look right through one. 

Nimpo used to feel that they could spy out any- 
thing in her secret heart. 

I said he had odd ways, and I '11 tell you how he 
would do, that you may see why she was afraid of 
him. When he met her anywhere, he would fix 
those awful eyes on her, and say, in a loud, abrupt 
way, " Whose girl are you? " 

" Mr. Rievor's," Nimpo would say, trembling. 

" What 's your name?" 

"Nimpo." 

"Nimpo! — a heathenish name! Did your 
father give you that name ? " 

" No, it's a nickname ; my real name is Helen." 



278 



N I M P O S TROUBLES. 



[March, I 



" Then, why did n't you say your name was 
Helen ? Helen, how old are you ? " 

'• Twelve years," Nimpo would say. 

" Helen, have you given your heart to the Lord?" 
would come next. 

" I don't know," poor Nimpo would say, almost 
wishing the earth would open and let her in, and 
feeling the most frantic desire to run away. 

At this uncertain answer would come an awful 
look, and these solemn words : 

" Twelve years old ! and don't know whether 
you 're a Christian ! I must pray for you." 

And if it was in a house, down he would go on 
his knees and pray for her, till poor Nimpo would 
feel that she was the most wicked wretch in '..he 
world, and not know what to do about it either. 

Now, this, — though meant, of course, in the 
greatest kindness, — was simply shocking to Nimpo, 
who felt that the deepest secrets of her soul were 
rudely torn out and held up to the view of the world. 

You may be sure she always ran away when she 
saw him coming ; crossed the street, dodged around 
a corner, or slipped out of the back door to avoid 
him, for he always asked the same questions. 

Then his sermons, — an hour long, as they were, 
— had a strange fascination for her. One especially 
she remembered so well, that when she was grown 
up it seemed as if he had preached it a dozen times. 
It was on the parable of the two men, one of whom 
built his house upon a rock, and nothing could 
shake it, while the other built his on the sand, and 
the storms beat upon it and it fell. 

The first time Nimpo heard it she went home 
feeling very anxious, and getting Rush to help, she 
dug a hole by the side of their house, to see if its 
foundation were on a rock. 

Well, on the Sunday I 'm telling about, though 
she had to wear a clean gingham dress and her 
school shoes, she dressed Robbie, helped Rush 
put on his collar and tie his black neck-ribbon, 
and got ready herself. 

As a last touch, after her hat was tied on, she 
took up her clean handkerchief by the middle fold, 
and shook it out so that the four corners hung 
together, and held it thus very carefully in her left 
hand. 

Then she went to a corner of the garden and 
picked several bunches of green caraway or fennel, 
to keep her awake in church. These she held with 
her handkerchief, and taking Robbie's hand, she 
called to Rush to bring her Sunday-school book 
from the table, and away they went to the Sunday- 
school and church. 

Sunday-school was at nine o'clock and church at 
half-past ten. So they did not get home till nearly 
one o'clock. 

Then they ate a lunch of pie and doughnuts, 



with, perhaps, a glass of milk. And at half-past 
two they went to church again. 

After that, the rest of the day was spent in read- 
ing Sunday-school beols, getting next week's les- 
son, eating supper, and perhaps taking a nap. 

Sometimes, when their mother was at home, if 
they were very quiet and would promise to walk 
slowly, they were allowed to take a walk to the 
graveyard. 

But Mrs. Primkins thought that was wicked ; so 
after they had read their thin little Sunday-school 
books twice through (Nimpo used to wonder if they 
were so thin because the children were so very good 
that there was n't much to say about them), and 
had looked at all the pictures in the big Bible, they 
were very glad to drag themselves otf to bed at 
eight o'clock. 

I tell you thus carefully about Nimpo's Sundays, 
because I want you to see how the world has be- 
come wiser since she was little, and how much 
more pleasant the. blessed day is made for you. 

Chapter VI. 

MRS. PRIMKINS PUTS NIMPO TO WORK. 

MONDAY morning came, and P.ush got ready for 
school. 

" I 'm not going to school to-day," said Nimpo. 

"Well, I am," said Rush. "It's awful dull 
here, and I can have some fun with the boys." 

And off he started. 

Now, Nimpo felt rather lonesome : but one of 
the things she thought her mother was especially 
cruel about, was making her go to school every 
day. So, of course, the only way to enjoy her 
liberty was to stay at home. 

Mrs. Primkins saw what she intended to do, and 
resolved to take her in hand. So after breakfast 
she said, coolly : 

"Nimpo, I expect you to do your own washing 
while you are here. I have enough of my own, 
without washing such a raft of things as that." 
And she pointed to the pile of clothes Nimpo had 
put out. 

It was rather a formidable pile, — three or four 
dresses, three or four linen suits for Robbie, as 
many for Rush, besides under-clothes, and such 
things. 

Nimpo looked at it in dismay ; but Mrs. Primkins 
went on : 

"There's a pail you can take; here's a piece 
of soap; and you '11 find hot water on the stove." 

Now, Nimpo knew no more about washing than 
a butterfly ; and her heart rebelled ; but she did n't 
quite dare to say anything. So. gloomily she went 
to work. She filled the pail with water, seized a 
pair of Robbie's knickerbockers, and began. 



374-J 



NIMPOS TROUBLES. 



79 



She rubbed and rubbed, and she soaped and 
Daped, and not a speck could she get out of these 
lothes. Her back ached ; the skin seemed scalded 
■om her hands ; her dress was soaked from waist 
D hem. 

i But there was Augusta Primkins, not much 
lder than she, up to her brown e'.1" ows in suds, and 
working away with ease. So Nimpo's pride helped 
er, and she endured as long as she could. At 
ast, when the pain of her raw fingers became in- 
alerable, and the perspiration ran off her face in 
ig drops, and an extra swish of the knickerbockers 
ent half the pail of suds over her clothes, she 
lazed up. 

Throwing down the garment with a tragical air, 
he burst out with : 

" Mrs. Primkins ! my mother does n't intend to 
ducate me for a washerwoman. I will send my 
lothes to Mrs. Jackson I" 

" I don't think your schoolin' is gitting much at- 
;ntion, since you come here," said Mrs. Primkins, 
ryly. " 1 don't think children git much good rim- 
ing around, trapesing all over the country, w'.tli 
othing to do. Satan always finds some work for 
ile hands to do. So, if you don't go to school, 
rhy, you '11 have to work in my house. There 's 
o two ways about that. I '11 wash your clothes 
ow ; you can do up the dishes." 

Nimpo stalked from the wash-room into the 
titchen, feeling that minding her was intolerable, 
et too well brought up to think of serious re- 
gjlion. 

She washed the odious blue-edged dishes, feeling 
11 the time an aching desire to pitch them out of 
he window. Then she went up stairs, threw her- 
elf on the bed and had a good cry. 

After awhile, she felt better, and got up and 
hanged her wet clothes. 

" I guess I '11 go to school, if the mean old thing 's 
ping to make me wash dishes," she Said to herself. 

So in the afternoon she went to school. Miss 
)sgood was glad to see her, and so were the girls ; 
>nd, to her own surprise, she felt happier than she 
ad since her mother went away. 

While they were bending over their geographies, 
ocking back and forth and moving their lips, ap- 
»arently studying with all their might, Anna Morris, 
'ho sat next to Nimpo, and was her "best friend," 
mispered softly : 

"Do you know Helen Benson's going to have 
er birthday party next Saturday ? " 

"Is she, truly?" asked Nimpo. 

"Yes; true 's I live and breathe and draw the 
reath of life," said Anna; "and most all the girls 
re invited; I am." 

" I wonder if she is n't going to invite me !" said 
Jimpo. 



"Oh, of course she will, only you wasn't here 
this morning. She is n't going to have any boys ; 
her mother won't let her." 

" I 'm glad of that," said Nimpo ; " boys arc so 
rude." 

" I aint ; I, think it 's real mean." 

At recess, the birthday party was the great sub- 
ject of conversation ; and as soon as she saw Helen 
Nimpo received her invitation. 

The invitations were not much like those which 
young ladies of twelve years get now-a-days, en- 
graved or written as ceremoniously as their mam- 
mas', enclosed in a dainty envelope, and sent by a 
servant. 

Helen just said to Nimpo : 

" O, Nimpo, I want you to come to my party, 
next Saturday." 

" Well, I will," said Nimpo ; and that was all. 

The great question, "What are you going to 
wear ? " came up next ; and that was as important 
to these girls, with only one Sunday dress, as it is 
to you with your man)'. 

Nimpo had no reply to make to the question. 
Her Sunday dress was ruined, and she did not 
know what she should do. 

The girls pitied her, and had plenty of sugges- 
tions to make. One advisi d her to hunt up a white 
dress which she had outgrown, and let it down ; and 
another offered to lend her a dress of her older 
sister's, which would only need tucking up and 
taking in under thq arms. But Nimpo was too 
proud to accept any such offer. 

"If mother was home," she sighed, as rhe 
walked slowly home, "she would get me a new 
dress ; I know she would." 

As she passed her father's store, she went in, 
partly to sec if any letters had come from her 
mother, and partly because she always did go in. 
Cousin Will happened to be in a pleasant mood, — 
he was n't always, — and so Nimpo told him about 
the party and her spoilt dress. 

" If mother was here, she 'd get me a new one," 
she ended. 

" I dare say she would," said Cousin Will, pity- 
ing the unhappy face of his little cousin, " and I '11 
tell you what I '11 do, Nimpo. If you can find any- 
body to make your dress, I '11 take the responsibility 
of letting you have one out of the store." 

"Oh! will you?" cried Nimpo. "Oh, I'll be 
so glad ! But who can I get? " she added, soberly, 
a moment later. The ladies in that primitive town 
made their own dresses. They did n't have forty 
tucks or ruffles on them, I can tell you. 

" Could n't Sarah make it ? " suggested Cousin 
Will. 

" I don't know ; perhaps so ; she doss sew some- 
times ; and come to think of it, she told me she 



280 



N I M P O S TROUBLES. 



[Marc 



used to sew for her old mistress. But she is away 
off at her sister's. "' 

" Not so very far, — only a mile through the 
woods. Rush knows where, for he and I went 
there once to get her." 

" Well, 1 '11 go over and see her now," said 
Nimpo, excitedly. " Where 's Rush ? " 

" He 's out, behind the store ! " said Cousin Will. 

Nimpo soon found him. He was delighted with 
the proposal to go to Sarah's. 

They started off at once, calling a moment at 
Mrs. Morris' to get Anna to go, too. 

Of course, all you young people know how de- 
lightful are walks in the woods ; so I need not de- 
scribe that part of it, only to say that they stopped 
so often to gather flowers, moss and other treasures, 
that when they got to Mrs. Johnson's, their arms 
and pockets and aprons were full. 

Mrs. Johnson, — Sarah's sister, — lived in a long, 
low cabin made of logs, in the woods. She had a 
husband and six or eight children, and the entire 
family had run away from the South a few years 
before. 

Sarah was busy, helping her sister spin, and was 
quite surprised to see Nimpo. 

" How do you git on, boarding?" was her first 
question. 

"Not very well," srid Nimpo; "but, Sarah, 
1 've come to see if you can't make me a new dress 
to go to Helen Benson's party ? " 

"La sakes now!" exclaimed Sarah. " Whar 's 
that new blue frock y'r ma done made fur ye?" 

" I spoiled it, — fell in the creek," said Nimpo. 

"Go 'long, now! What ye s'pose y'r ma 'U 
say ? " 

"I don't know," said Nimpo, penitently; "but 
will you make the dress ? Cousin Will says I may 
have one, if you '11 make it." 

" Lor' ! ye oughten ter spile y'r cloze so . I don't 
see how I kin do it, no ways." 

" Yes, Sarah," spoke up her sister ; " make it fur 
the po' child. I kin help ye." 

Nimpo turned gratefully to the speaker, — a big 
woman, with a fat black baby in her lap. 

" Oh, thank you !" 

And so it was settled that Sarah would make the 
dress; and Nimpo agreed to "bring the stuff 
aroun'," the next day. 

" Sarah !" said Rush, " now let 's have a story." 

"Oh, oh, do!" cried Nimpo and Anna, in a 
breath ; for Sarah was a famous story-teller. 

" You say you '11 come over, some day, and tell 
me 'bout the party," said Sarah, " an' I '11 tell ye a 
story, that '11 make y'r ha'r stan' up." 

" Oh, yes ; we '11 promise sure," said Nimpo, 
eagerly, " if you only will tell us the story right 
off." 



Chapter VII. 

SARAH'S STORY. 

Sarah's stories were wonderful things. To h 
sure, they were apt to be a little startling, an 
generally ended by scaring her listeners half out c 
their wits ; but that only made them more delighi 
fully exciting. 

By this time the Johnson children, getting a hin 
of the coming treat, began to crowd around, an 
Sarah began : 

" Now, all you young uns must sit 'mazin' still i 
I 'm gwine to tell a story." 

Nimpo and Anna were already occupying th 
only spare chairs. Rush sat on the wood-box, an< 
the biggest Johnson girl on a keg, while the rest o 
the children squatted around on the floor, makin; 
a close semicircle about Sarah. 

Sarah's virtue as a story-teller was in her face anr 
manner. She was very black, with large rollin 
eyes, a very long face, a monstrous mouth, grea 
white teeth, and long thin hands, which had ar 
uncanny white look on the inside, as though tht 
color were coming off. 

Perhaps you don't think hands have much to dc 
with story-telling, but they had with Sarah's, I car 
tell you. 

Quieting her audience with threats of " clarin 
'em all out the house." she began in a low, solemr 
voice : 

" Onct upon a time, way down inOle Kentuck'. 
there lived a M A N ! He was a-w-f-u-1 rich, anc 
had heaps an' heaps o' nice things in his dark 
cellar. Bottles an' bottles o' wine, bar'ls an' bar'ls 
o' cider, an' lots an' lots o' hams, bar'ls and bar'l 
o' bacon, an' bins an' bins o' apples, an' jars an 
jars o' sweetmeats, an' boxes an' boxes o' raisins, 
an' O ! piles o' good things to eat, in that dark 
cellar." 

Sarah paused to see the effect. Rush smacked 
his lips, and the eyes of the whole Johnson family 
rolled in ecstasy at the delightful picture. 

" But he was a-w-f-u-1 stingy ! Not a speck of 
all these yer goodies would he guv to a-n-y body. 
Lor' ! he al'us kep the key in his own pocket, an' if 
he wanted ham for dinner, he went down in that 
yer d-a-r-k cellar, an' cut a slice, nuff fur hisself. 
An' if he wanted wine, he jes went down an' fetched 
a bottle, an' al'us locked the do' arter him, an' 
n-e-v-e-r guv Sam the fustest speck ! " 

" Who 's dat ar ? " asked one of the children. 

" You shet up ! I '11 crack ye over the head, if 
ye don't stop cuttin' up sich shines ! " Sarah re- 
plied. 

The interrupter shrunk behind his mother, and 
felt snubbed. 

" Well, now," Sarah went on, rolling her eyes. 



1874-1 



XI Ml* S TROUBLES. 



28l 



'■' that ar Sam was a po' nigga, — the only nigga the 
stingy man had ; an' he was that stingy he never 
half fed him no way. He guv him a leetle corn- 
meal fur hoe cakes, an' onct in a g-r-e-a-t while a 
leetle teeny bit uv a thin slice o' bacon. So Sam 



Sam, I shall be gone away three days, an' that 11 
have to last ye till I get back. I '11 warrant ye 'd 
like to jes eat it even- .ap the fust day, an' ax fur 
mo', — it 's jes like ye, — but not a snojen do you get 
till I come back, fur I 've locked everything up. 




SAM IN THE CKLLAlv. 



got thinner an' thinner, till he was near a shadder, 
an' his fingers were 1-o-n-g and b-o-n-y." 

And Sarah held up hers and clawed them in the 
air, till the children could almost see Sam and his 
bony hands. 

" Well, one day this bad man had to go 'way off 
to the big city, an' he had n't got nobody to leave 
in the house but jes Sam. So he done measured 
out jes so much corn-meal, an' he said : ' Now 



An' if I find anything out o' order 
when I come back, I '11, — I '11, — wal- 
lop you ; see if I don't ! ! ' 

" With that ar d-r-e-f-f-u-1 threat, 
the cruel Mah'sr went off, an' left 
Sam all alone. Well, Sam went to 
clarin' up the house, an' when he 
went to hang up his Mah'sr's every- 
day cloze, — fur in course he wore 
his Sunday ones to go to town, — 
he hars somethin' hit agin the wall, 
an' he thought to hisself : ' I '11 see 
what that ar is. Mebby Mah'sr 's 
done leff a penny in his pocket. 
Oh, golly ! won't I buy a bun ! ' 
An' he put his hand in the pocket, 
an' what do you s'fiose kefotmd? 

■•THE CELLAR KEY!!!" 

Sarah, looking wildly at her listeners, said these 
thrilling words in an awful whisper, with a roll of 
the eyes and a dropping of the jaw, that made it 
still more horrible. 

" ' Oh, Lor' ! here 's the key ! ' said Sam to his- 
self; ' what s-h-a-1-1 I do ? ' An' then he thought 
awhile. But, sakes ! chillen, 'pears like the Debil is 



282 



NIMl'U S TROUBLES. 



[March 



al'us waitin' fur chances, an' so he popped into 
Sam's head to jes go an' look at the good things. 
' I won't touch ary bit,' said Sam, ' fur Ole Mah'sr 'd 
find out if one apple stem 's gone, — but I '11 look.' 
That was the fust wrong step, chillcn. Ye know 
how hard it is to defrain, if ye look at the things 
ye oughten ten Well, this yer onreverent nigga 
c-r-c-p-t down stairs an' unlocked the do', an' 
p-e-e-p-e-d in, — trem'lin', fit to drop. He more 
spected to see Ole Mah'sr behind a bar'l. But it 
was as s-t-i-1-1 as the grave, so he c-r-e-p-t in. 
There Lung the 1-o-n-g rows o' hams, — so juicy an' 
sweet ; and Sam went up an' thought to hisself, 
' Now, I '11 jes smell of one.' So he smelled of it, 
an' it was so nice seems like he could n't help jes 
touch it with his finger an' clap his finger in his 
mouf, an' then he did it agin. Ye know, chillen, 
how the ole Debil Stan's side o' ye an' helps ye on. 
Arter Sam had tasted onct or twice, he seen a 
t-c-e-n-y bit of a ham, way off in the fur corner, 
an' he said to hisself, ' I don't b'lieve Ole Mah'sr '11 
ever miss that arone, — 't aint much 'count no way.' 
An', chiller. ^ h? was that hungry he could n't help 
it. I do b'lieve. He snatched that ham, an' he eat 
an' cat an' eat till he could n't stuff another moufful, 
an" hid the rest behind a bar'l. Then he went on 
an' went on till he come to the apples, — bins an' 
bins o' b-c-a-u-t-i-f-u-1 red apples ! And he smelt 
of 'em, an' then he eat an' eat an' eat till he could 
n't stuff another moufful. Then he went on an' 
went on till he came to the shelf o' sweetmeats, an' 
he looked at 'cm an' smelt of 'em, and finally he 
snatched a jar, tore off the cover, an' eat an' eat 
an' eat till he could n't stuff another moufful. 

" An' then he could n't eat any more, sure nuff, 
an' he went out an' locked the do'. But he never 
had so much to eat in his life, an' 'pears like he was 
stuffed so full he sort o' lost his reasons. He went 
out an' laid down on a bench in the sun, an' he said 
to hisself, ' Lor' ! aint it nice to have nuff to eat 
fur onct ; there's poor Jim, I don't s'pose he ever 
had nuff in his life.' An' then a w-c-r-y wicked 
idea come into his head. So, byem by he got up 
an' went over to Jim's, — he lived next do', — an' he 
tole him soon 's it was night to come over, an' he 
tole him to fotch Sally. Sally was the house gal, a 
likely wench, an' Sam liked her. An' then he went 
to Tom's and tole him to com^ too ; and finally, 
chillen, he 'vited quite a 'spectable company. Then 
he went home, an' he went into the woodshed an' 
fetched in big sticks o' wood, an' he made up a 
mose won'erful fire, an' swept out the big kitchen 
clean an' nice, tho' he was n't extra neat now, Sam 
was n't. 'Bout ten o'clock his company 'gan to 
come, the ladies all dressed up fine in some of their 
Missis' things, — low neck an' short sleeves, an' rib- 
bins an' white gloves. O, go 'way ! yer don't see no 



sich things up har! An' the gemmen! Lor', chillen, 
if ye could see the fine long-tailed blue coats, with 
buttons shinin' like marygolds, ye'd laff fit to split 
y'r sides. 

"Arter the company was all there, an' talked a 
little 'bout the weather an' sich topics o' conversa- 
tion, he axed 'em, ' Would n't they like a little 
defreshment ? ' They was very polite, an' said, 
'No, thank ye,' an' ' I 'd ruther be 'xcused.' Bu.c 
he went to the cellar, an' he took'd out g-r-e-a-t 
plates o' apples an' g-r-e-a-t pitchers o' cider, an' 
Tom helped him ; an' they fetched out Ole Mah'sr's 
tum'lers, an' he filled 'em all up ; an' he fetched 
out a w-h-o-l-e jar o' sweetmeats, an' a g-r-e-a-t 
dish o' honey, an' pickles, — oh, Lor' ! such heaps o' 
things ! An' all the time Sam said, so polite, 
' Ladies an' gemmen, hep you'self, there 's mo' in 
Mah'sr's cellar ! ' 

"An' they did hep theirselves, an' they eat an' 
eat an' eat till they could n't stuff another moufful. 
An' while they was all stuffin', an' Sam was gwine 
round with a bottle o' wine in each hand, sayin' so 
polite, ' Ladies and gemmen, hep you's